Lit·er·al; /ˈlitərəl/ :Taking words in their usual or most basic sense without metaphor or allegory. Also, if intestines were awesome, he would be full of awesome. Literally.

Two nights ago, my 11-year-old son brought me an unopened bag of Idontknowwhat and said, Mama? What is this?, I glanced over and realized: 1. I'd forgotten the name of the stuff, and 2. I couldn't tell him oh, this? This is the stuff Mama bought to flush down the toilet, to break up the massive poops everybody in this house has recently been experiencing, along with the softball mitt sized wads of toilet paper you still insist on throwning in and flushing down the toilet.

He really wanted an answer, but I was really busy getting drunk and clicking the "add to cart" button with some last-minute shopping, so I just said, Mommy's busy sweetie, what does the bag say?

At this point, I expected a one-word, maybe two-word answer. What I got was this:

" says New Drano Advanced Septic Treatment....Breaks down solid waste, paper, oil, grease and protein. Works safely in all tanks and pipes....Just drop and flush..three no mess pouches...1 pouch per month equals 3 months of care... Caution: harmful if swallowed: eye irritant. Read back panel carefully.....SC Johnson...A family company."

Then he looked at me and said, So what is this?

That's LITERAL, yo.

When an obsessive need meets a brilliant ADHD moment, it's a beautiful thing.

I like to brush my teeth. Wait, let me jump back. I have an OBSESSIVE need to brush my teeth. Several times a day. Twice in the morning upon wakening, once after my mid-morning coffee binge, once before lunch, once after lunch, once after I get home from work, once before dinner and once before bed.

Is that weird?

I already know this habit goes back to my eating disordered days. I hated having the taste of food in my mouth. I wanted a fresh, clean, minty mouth at all times.

I overcame anorexia, but the need to have a sharp, shiny-clean mouth has lingered. Which made this morning very difficult, as I ran out of toothpaste and everyone knows you can't have your morning coffee before you've brush your teeth twice. Because your nasty morning breath will interfere with the heavenly flavor of your Starbucks Venti iced coffee with 3 pumps of mocha. Amiright? Of course I am, it's my blog.

So you can probably imagine my horror when, upon dragging my ass to the bathroom kitchen sink last weekend, I discovered that my tube was completely and utterly used up.

At first I was like, no biggie, I'm sure I picked up some extra tubes the last time I was at the store. Because that's what I do. I stock up on toothpaste and extra toothbrushes the way...well, the way somebody addicted to something stocks up on that thing. Not that I'm addicted to brushing my teeth. I'm sure that any of my co-workers would be willing to vouch that they have never seen me walking down the hallway to the bathroom with a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth.

But when I checked my super-secret new toothpaste/toothbrush hidey-hole (What's that you say? You don't have one? Well, you should. Just in case the Rapture/Zombie Apocolypse/your Mother-in-Law comes to town), I found, to my horror, I had no toothpaste!

And that's when shit got real, yo.

So I did what any normal person would do when faced with a lack of toothpaste on a lazy weekend morning. What's that, you say? Run to the local Walgreens? Pshht! Not before I'd had my coffee, which I couldn't have because I couldn't brush my teeth.

This is what I did instead:
Haha. It only looks empty.

Ta-Da! Toothpaste for another week. At least.

Why I take medication.

1. 6:20pm - Decide that you will use the leftover roast chicken from yesterday to make white chili. YUM!

2. 6:45pm - Realize that you and your family won't be able to enjoy this feast without tortilla chips.

3. 6:47pm - Leave the chili on low (it needs to simmer for 15 minutes, you'll be back waayyy before  then) and instruct your children not to kill each other while you're gone. They promise they will do their best, and that's good enough for you.

4. 6:48pm - Halfway down your street, realize that you would really like hair extensions. Tonight.

5. 6:49pm - Turn left towards Sally Beauty Supply, instead of right, towards the local market.

6.  6:49-7:05pm - Spend 15 minutes talking to Ruth, at Sally Beauty, about hair extensions, and the difference between fusion and clip extensions. End your visit with a bag of hair and a thingy that gets SUPER HOT. Later you will use this device to semi-permanently glue pieces of hair to your head. You don't see a problem with this, in fact, you think it's really neat. Ruth tells you that you will need 5 packages of hair, but she only has 3 packages in your color. You decide Ruth is full of shit, and you know that 3 packages of hair will be just perfect. Ruth reminds you that hair is non-returnable. Pfft, whatever.

7. 7:10- Arrive home with your bag of hair and a giant bag of Tostitos. Your children are in the process of killing each other.

8. 7:11pm-Scrape the burnt chili off the bottom of the pan. Feed it to the kids anyway.

9. 8:00pm - Hustle the kids into bed so you can... Do. Your. Hair!

10. 8:05pm - Pour yourself a glass of wine. You deserve it!

10. 8:10pm - Wash and dry your hair. You notice that it's never looked this silky and shiny before. You ignore this ominous warning, and proceed to hot-glue strands of some stranger's hair to your head. You wonder if the hair was harvested from dead people. Because the package says, "Human hair." It doesn't say, "Human hair from a living person."

11. 8:15pm - Realize this was a huge mistake. But the hair is non-refundable, so you decide to keep going. You've never been a quitter, and you aren't going to start now.

12. 8:23pm - You now have 14 strands of 12 inch long hair glued to the lower half of your head. This is not what you had pictured. You have some wine.

13. 8:25pm - You recall the lady at Sally Beauty telling you about a chemical that disolves the glue. Something that has acetone in it. She also warned you not to use products that had animal fat in them.

14. 8:28pm - You find yourself frantically rubbing at your hair with cotton balls soaked in nail polish. It doesn't work.

15. 8:31 - You seriously consider rubbing a pork chop into your hair.

16. 8:35pm - You decide that a hot shower is what you need. The lady at Sally warned you not to take hot showers, or the extentions would come out. You glop on 2 different kinds of conditioner, hoping that one of them contains some form of animal fat. But? The top of your hair looks AWESOME

17. 8:41pm - You now have massive tangles in your hair, held in place by stiff, wet hair glue.

18. 8:45 - Après-shower, you pry the lid off of your stick of Secret, and suddenly a huge lump of deoderant flies off, only to land in your glass of wine. Of which you have only had one sip.

19. 8:45:14 - FUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!

20. 8:48 - You attempt to comb through your hair, but it's no good. The lower half of your hair is now a huge mass of sticky tangles. And there's no more wine. You decide to put the top half of your hair in a huge clip, to keep it away from what you now call, "The Unspeakable."

21. 9:00pm - You're already in your pajamas, but so what. You slip your longish black coat over your blue satin striped pajamas. It's cold outside, so you decide to wear your Tamara Henriques striped Wellingtons. The Palistinian guys who run the liquor store aren't going to judge you. In fact, you have an agreement with them. In exchange for them always keeping a cold bottle of your favorite chardonnay on hand, you simply grab a bottle off the shelf, walk into the cooler and exchange it for the chilled bottle you put there several days ago. Yes, you're doing their work for them, but your favorite chardonnay, always chilled? WIN.

9:14pm - They totally judge you.

22. 9:20pm - You arrive home with your chilled bottle of wine, and decide that a low ponytail is always in style. Time for burnt chili and a movie.

And this is why I take medication.

Stuff ADHD people like, part I

I haven't blogged in FOREVAH, because I couldn't think of anything funny/witty/poignant, or simply entertaining to write about. Except for that one thing that happened two weeks ago, but I'm not going to blog about that, because I know some gossipy beyotches, and I didn't feel like having my family be the topic of the monthly get-togethers. Again.


But tonight I had a flash of inspiration. You all know I'm diagnosed with a RAGING case of ADHD, but tonight I realized that not all of you may know what that means. So for your edification, I present:


(I couldn't put the word "shit" in my title, because I have this agreement with BlogHer that I won't put curse words in my title). Everyone on BlogHer has the same agreement. So, no, I wasn't singled out, no matter what that bitch Jillsmo has been spreading around.

1. Gadgets. More specifically, anything that promises to make our lives easier, or simply more fun, as we are easily bored and often gullible. These objects are initially sold via infomercial between 2-4am, and then end up on the shelves of Walmart in boxes marked "As Seen On TV!".

These include: Seal-A-Meal (own it), Ginsu knives (own one), Pro-Active (bought it once), Didi-7 Stain Remover (this shit WORKS!), those flashlights you have to shake to get them to work (bought one, but now I can't find it. The Boy probably has it), The Slap-Chop (America's Food Chopper), Pasta Boat (Cooks, Drains, Steams & Stores!), The Touch N Brush Hands-Free Toothpaste Dispenser (Z used to beg me to buy one, but I knew I would end up with nothing but a bathroom counter full of toothpaste, and anger in my heart), the Roomba (I WISH! Have you SEEN those awesome cat videos???) and The Perfect Tortilla Pan Set (I'm not stupid, I know how to fold a tortilla), just to name a few.

2. Things that you can put other things inside of. Stacking baskets, food storage containers, 5-foot-tall wine racks in the shape of an exotic fish, floor lamps that double as CD holders and desks with lots and lots of cubbies and drawers are a few examples. This is because we are usually a hot mess in the area of housekeeping, and anything that promises to consolidate space is AWESOME.

3. AHMAHGAHDSHINYTHINGS!!! Jewelry, glassware, mirrors, picture frames, pottery, pretty dresses, shoes, belts with Swarovski crystal belt buckles, purses, gel pens, stainless steel refrigerators, sparkly nail polish, fancy grills, ceiling fans, perfume bottles and KitchenAid stand mixers.

4. Books and magazines that promise to help us get our homes and lives in order. Once, I read a magazine called "Real Simple" and got the idea to safety pin my kids' socks together so I didn't have to bother matching them. I immediately subscribed to it, because hello??!!! Genius time saving ideas here, people! I've been getting it for 11 months now and I've never opened it. Ever. It sits on my counter for about 4 months and I end up throwing it away because another book I bought called, "How to Clean Your House Without Really Cleaning" said to throw away anything I hadn't used in the past 3 months.

5. Cell phones, video cameras, actual cameras, iPods, tablets, notebooks, Nooks, chronograph watches, Kindles, GPS devices, fancy pedometers, pens that light up when we write with them, and digital meat thermometers. Because we like buttons, yo.

6. TV shows about people who are bigger messes than we are, such as: My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding, 16 and Pregnant, Hoarders, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant, and Cops. As long as they are an hour or less, with lots of commercial breaks. Because that's when we get on ebay and order cameras with lots of buttons, new facial creams, Shark steam mops and iPods with more space for all the music we download from iTunes.

7. Other people with ADHD. You may not even know you have ADHD, or ADHD traits. BUT! We will sniff you out like a monkey on a banana plantation.

8. Monkeys.

About the time I killed the Easter Bunny*

When I was little, my parents would ship me off to my grandparent's farm in Astoria for the week leading up to Easter, every year, without fail. It was cool because Mom would put me on the Greyhound bus and wave goodbye. I always used to fantasize that I'd end up in New York and possibly become a famous model or actress, known for my shiny hair and awesome dance moves. But no, I always ended up in Astoria, population 1,193.

I should let you know, many traumatic events occurred over the years during my Easter weeks on the farm. Like...LOTS. I got my first period, killed the Easter Bunny, and inadvertently cause the death of several baby chicks, to name a few.

I killed the Easter Bunny when I was 8 years old, which is a very impressionable age, my psychiatrist tells me. A time when great psychological good, or GREAT PSYCHOLOGICAL HARM can take place. It was a balmy April evening, as I recall. Two days before Easter, so I guess it would have been Good Friday.

My grandparents and I were finishing up our weenie roast, and I had just eaten the last of the toasted marshmallows (sugar was my crack). Euphoric from my sugar high, and momentarily distracted by a bird flying overhead, I wandered off and came upon a nest of two baby rabbits.


I quickly ran back and told my grandparents what I had discovered, and asked if I could have one of the bunnies. At that point my Grandma Josephine told me in her Very Serious Voice that I was not to touch the bunnies, EVER!!! Because if I did, their mother would know what I had done, and she would let them die. And then they would be dead. FOREVER. Because of me.

*GASP!* For realsies??

Me: "Can I just pet one?"

Grandma: "No!"

Me: "Please???"

Grandma: "NO!"


Grandma: "I said no and I meant NO!! Now get up into the house right now, and I better not catch you messing with those rabbits!"

As I trudged reluctantly up to the farmhouse, Grandma called after me, "And remember! The Easter Bunny's WATCHING YOU!"

I seriously doubted that.

Later that night, while Grandpa and Grandma were watching Hee-Haw, I snuck out to the bunnies nest. There they were, all snuggled up, so cute and cuddly! One of them opened his eye and winked at me, as if to say "It's ok, you can pick us up. Your grandma doesn't know what she's talking about, and we're not talking. Promise!"

I looked around the woods. I saw no mama bunny, but she could be hiding behind a tree, waiting to attack me.
Shut up. I had a very vivid imagination.

There was nothing to do but just pick one up. I grabbed the baby bunny closest to me and picked him up ever so gently. He was so cute and soft. I named him Henry. Henry and I cuddled for close to an hour, until Grandma called me back to the house. I put Henry back in his nest, swore him to secrecy and promised to come back the next day.

The next day was Saturday, and I could hardly wait to finish breakfast and go visit Henry. I ultimately planned on sneaking him back to Peoria in my suitcase, but he and I would discuss that later. I had to take his wishes into consideration, after all. And a trailer court might not be the best place to raise a rabbit. Some crazy drunken neighbor might kill him and eat him for dinner one night. I had much thinking to do.

I ran to the woods, and stopped short. My brain seemed to be short-circuiting. There was Henry's nest. But where was Henry's brother/sister? And where was his mother? And why was Henry laying there alone, ever so stiff and motionless? Almost as if he were...GASP!!!

I was dimly aware that Henry had passed on, but I had to make an attempt to save him. I had seen CPR performed on Emergency! and I had the basics down. But my love for Henry only went so far. I ended up waving the copy of Little Women I had brought along to read to him in his face, hoping that the air I circulated would somehow make its way to his lungs, thus reviving him. No good, Henry was a goner.

I then turned my mind to the next problem at hand.

My Grandma Josephine was going to beat my ass.

Of this I had no doubt. She had never spanked me in my whole life, but I'd never killed anything before either. I felt bad for Henry, but I felt worse for myself. Because of the ass-beating I was sure to get. It never occured to me to just walk away and play dumb, which would have been the best solution, looking back.

But instead I scooped up Henry and took him to the house. Grandma heard me wailing before I even got to the front yard, and she met me on the porch.

Grandma: "Well. What have we here, Child?"

Me (sobbing): It's one of th-th-the bunnies I saw last night!"

Grandma: "Uh-huh, I see that. And he's dead, isn't he?"

Me: "YES!!!!"

Grandma: "Did you go and pick that bunny up after I told you not to?"

Me: "BWAAAAAAA!!!!!"

But the worst was yet to come. My Grandma didn't spank me. She did worse. MUCH WORSE.

Grandma: "Well. You know what you've gone and done, don't you?"

Me (whimpering): "No."

Grandma: "Well, you've gone and killed the EASTER BUNNY!!!"

Me: "NOOOOO!!!!"

Grandma: "That's right. Now, tomorrow morning, every little boy and girl in the entire world will NOT get their Easter baskets, all because of you. Not even in France."

Me: *sobbing*

Grandma: "Now. You wait right here, and don't bring that thing in the house. I'll be right back."

Ignoring the fact that my grandma had just called Henry a "thing", I pondered my situation. I hadn't believed in the Easter bunny since last year, when I found my Easter basket while searching for the Girl Scout cookies in my mom's closet. I knew my mom had put this year's basket in my suitcase, I'd checked the second she'd left me alone with it. So did this mean I wouldn't get my basket? The one my very own Mother had sent with me? The one she wanted me to have? This was serious. But not as serious as what was to come. Because my grandma had a surprise in store for me.

Grandma came out of the house, carrying a big silver spoon and a brown shoe box.

Grandma: "Well, it's only fitting that since you killed the Easter Bunny, you should be the one to bury him. So you take this box, and this spoon, and you dig him a nice grave out back. And don't you come back until you're done."

At this, she turned her back on me and slammed the screen door after her. I was left alone. With Henry, a big spoon, and a shoe box. I sighed and made my way to the backyard.

And so I buried Henry underneath an old oak tree, told him I was very sorry I'd killed him and promised not to touch and/or kill any more animals. This promise was actually held until the very unfortunate "baby chick stampede of 1975".

Now, about my grandma. My grandma Josephine totally ROCKED. Now that I'm older and wiser, I realize she had a great respect for life in all it's forms (she just didn't want it in her dining room). She may have been a wee bit harsh, but it's a lesson I never forgot.

Don't F*ck With Mother Nature.

What? Your mom didn't draw pictures of sex parts for you when she gave you The Talk on a cold and rainy November afternoon in 1978? Weird.

Women, think back to when your mom had The Talk with you. Hopefully your mom, or someone, had The Talk with you. If not, email me, I can maybe help. If you don't know what The Talk is, go to bed, it's way past your bedtime.

I'm going to tell you about the time my mom had The Talk at me with me. There are three things you need to know about this encounter:

1. It was waaay too late. I grew up in a trailer court. And went to summer camp.
2. She drew pictures. Vivid, vivid pictures.
3. Don't ever draw pictures when/if you have The Talk with your own daughter/neice/granddaughter, etc. Unless you want your daughter to someday write about it on her blog. Then, by all means, draw away.

It was a cold and rainy sunday afternoon in November. I was sketching Holly Hobby on my brand new sketch/watercolor pad, and the year was 1978. Nearly every girl in 1978 was obsessed with: Holly Hobby, Laura Ingalls, Gunne Sax, or a combination of the three. In fact, I'm hanging out in my pink and white Gunne Sax prairie dress right now.
Jealous much?

 Anyway, there I was, 11 years old and happily drawing Holly Hobby. I didn't ask for what came next, I didn't expect it, and years of expensive therapy have yet to erase it from my fragile psyche.

Mom: "Y! Come out to the kitchen, will you? Oh, and bring your drawing pad with you."

That's right. I supplied the materials for my own traumatization.

Me: "Ok mom!"

We sat down at the kitchen table, and my mom immediately asked, "Honey, do you know how babies are made?"

Ok, this was a loaded question. If I answered yes then I would be in trouble for knowing stuff I shouldn't. However, if I answered no, then I was going to get The Talk. Lose-Lose. Crap. I rolled the mental dice and came up with...

Me: you?

See? Sometimes it's savvy to answer a question with a question.

In this case, however, it was not, because my mom apparently then felt the need to prove that yes, she did know how babies were made.

Mom grabbed my pad of drawing paper and took the pencil from my limp hand. She quickly began sketching and no amount of "Whatcha doing there mom?" convinced her to show me what she was drawing. Finally, she set my pencil down and triumphantly showed me this:

That's right. My mom drew a wanker. With hair. Oh, but she wasn't finished. Before I could swallow the vomit rising in my throat, my tormenter mom snatched back the pad of paper and drew this masterpiece:
My mom apparently attended the Georgia O'Keefe school of drawing sex parts

My jaw dropped in shock. My mother had just, in my mind, shown me pornography. I rapidly sorted through the list of appropriate responses in my mind. I came up with: "Ohhh! It's a bomb pop!", "Is it a sea anemone?" and even, "That's a flower, right?"

I could tell she was carefully watching me for signs of unease completely oblivious to my traumatized expression.
She gave me a few minutes to gather my thoughts labeled the penis and vagina as "exhibit A" and "exhibit B". She explained how they fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She told me what came out of "exhibit A" (ewww). Then she drew a picture of this substance:
Bestest. Easter. Egg. Hunt. Ever.

She explained that there could be only one winner in the race to the egg, which probably accounted for the confused and/or pissed off looks of the losing sperm.

By this time, I was mentally covering my ears and rocking back and forth.

I don't really recall what she said after she drew the pictures of the sperm. Honest. I think my mind was in lockdown. GIGO. Garbage In, Garbage Out, in Cobol terms.

The next thing I remember was my mother, looking extremely proud of herself, tearing off the pieces of drawing paper with the porn drawn on them. She told me I could keep them. As if!!! The first time she went to the bathroom, I crumpled them up and threw them in the garbage.

The next day at the bus stop, I told Kristine what had gone down the night before. Her eyes lit up, and her only comment was:

"Did you bring the pictures?"


To be honest, my mother did a bang-up (no pun intended) job of teaching me the birds and the bees. She was just a few years too late. So, mom's out there? Yeah, talk to your daughters before they know too much to be embarassed, and before they go to summer camp. Personally, I had the talk with my daughter when she was 9, and it was so cool. She was old enough to understand, but too young to be embarassed.

Peace out.

10 common phrases used in our house

I'm in the middle of writing a gigantic post, because I got not one, but TWO blogger awards, and I need to pass them on. So what if they were the same award, from different people?

That just means I rock all that much more, amiright?

Oh, one more thing. This picture goes out to Shirley.
Just keep your hands to yourself and we'll all have a fine time.

*Update - I just got another award! Being this spectacular comes with it's own set of curses, people.

There will be more than 10 phrases, because my son has Anxiety Disorder/OCD/Sensory Integration Disorder/ADHD/Disruptive Behavior and also repeats phrases/questions numerous f*cking times in any given time period. So, yeah. Oh, and the kids are in bold. And yes, I'm aware that the formatting is messed up. And I'm obsessive, so I've spent more time trying to line up the word "chicken" than I've spent writing this whole post. Sometimes we just have to  Let. Things. Go.

#1. Is it my birthday yet?
   No. Not for another month.
   Oh, ok. (five minutes pass).....
   Is it my birthday tomorrow?
   No. It's your birthday in THIRTY DAYS.
   Oh, ok. (five minutes pass).....How many minutes are in thirty days?
#2. Did you know that a velociraptor was only as big as a chicken? 
    Wow, really?
    Yep. And it didn't even live in the Jurassic Period, it lived in the Cretaceous Period!
    That's crazy!
    I know, right?

#4. I decided I'm going to be a vegetarian. But I don't like yogurt. Or beans. Or vegetable lasagna.  Or Tofu. Can I just eat grilled cheese and cucumbers?

#5. You'll have to walk to school today, I need to deal with your brother and I don.....
    What the EFF?? Get your butt out that door and get to school!
    I HATE YOU!!!!!
    Oh yeah? WELL, I HATE YOU TOO!!!


#7. J? Can I hold your guinea pig?
   (five minutes pass).....J? Can I hold your guinea pig?
#8. Mom??? Have you given Z his medication?!!
    Well, IT'S NOT WORKING!!!

#9. J? Did you take your medication?
    You lie. Take it right now.

#10. Is it my birthday yet?

And then I found this on the stairs. These are the dinosaurs from my son's birthday cake last year:
I am totally gonna bite your ass. Totally.

Gameboard phrases you will probably never hear in real life. And yes, I meant to split my infinitive.

My kids are playing Life, and that got me thinking. And what I thought was this, there are only a few times in your life you will hear someone ask you, "How do you want your $10,000?" Unless you're robbing a bank.

1. Ha! You have to go to jail because you're standing on the corner. And you don't get $200.
That just how it goes down in the 'hood.

2. Ok, so there are two ways you can get out of jail. Either pick a card or roll a double.
Bitch eyes blue, gonna kill my landlord.

3. You just had twins, lucky for you you're a rock star.

4. Hey, you're standing on my lawn! You owe me $500!

5. Hey, you're on my lawn and I just planted a tree there. Now you owe me $1000.

6. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.

7. Ok, do you want the Georgian mansion for $3,500,000 or the Colonial for $295,000?

8. Looks like I'm going to visit Gramma Nut in her peanut brittle house.

9. I'm tired, can we finish Life in the morning?

Autism isn't a big deal, right? Wait, can you answer that later? I'm watching Adventure Time right now, and it's my favorite show.

My son was given a tentative diagnosis of autism in November, by the developmental pediatrician in charge of the ASD clinic at our local center for disability services. The dr. decided he wanted Z to go through a formal ASD evaluation which includes the ADOS, a SLP evaluation, an OT evaluation and a play-based evaluation, in addition to my son meeting with the doctor again.

*FYI- For those that don't know, that's Z in my header, this was taken 2 years ago. He's the one wearing the Spiderman Viper costume with the legs tucked into his cowboy boots. At his sister's gymnastics class. Note the WIDE, OPEN SPACE all around him. And the way that everyone is acting like, oh, that kid? I actually hadn't even NOTICED he: 1. was there 2. was wearing a costume 3. has worn this costume to the last five weeks of gymnastics practice.*

His evaluation is in two weeks, and my child has no idea he has this tentative diagnosis. Had. He had no idea. Until tonight.

See, I've been stressing over how to break it to him, sincerely believing he would freak out. Because he freaks out when we go through the car wash, or if the toilet is to loud. But I knew I'd have to discuss it with him at some point, and tonight he seemed relaxed enough to broach the subject. It went nothing like I thought it would.

Me: "Hey, Z? Can I ask you a question?"

Z: "Sure."

Me: "Do you ever feel like you just don't know what people are talking about, or you don't know what they want from you? Or do you feel like you don't know how to make friends?"

Z: "Yes!"

Me: "Huh! Well, would you like to find out why you're having these problems?"

Z: "No, not really."

Me: "You don't?"

Z: "Nope. I'm good."

Me: "*sigh*.......Hey! Do you remember Dan Ackroyd? That guy who wrote Ghostbusters and Dragnet? Did you know he has autism?"

Z: "He does?"

Me: "Yeah! And he's totally cool, isn't he?!"

Z: "Yeah!"

Me: "Well, how would you feel if somebody told you that you had autism?"

Z: "Um, I don't.....can we talk about this later? This is my favorite show that's on right now." (Adventure Time. A show obviously created and written by people taking massive amounts of hallucinogenic drugs.)

Me: "Well, just tell me. Would you be upset?"

Z: "No! Of course not! Oh, shhhh! This is the best part of the show!"


Z: "Wait, why? Do I have autism?"

Me: "Well, the dr. thought you might, but he wants to be sure. So you're having an evaluation in a week to find out."

Z: "Oh, ok."

Me: "So you're ok with all of this? I mean, no matter what, you're still the same awesome Z, right?"

Z: "Of course I am! I'm still me and I.....oh, wait. This is a new episode. I don't mean to be rude, but can we talk about this later?"

My kid is totally awesome.