Fwd: fwd: fwd: fwd: I hate my autistic daughter

I belong to a few closed and/or secret groups regarding Autism and other disabilities. Last night, someone in one of my groups posted the below clip, and some of the parents in my group were dismissive of this mother. They called her names like "bitch", "heartless bitch", "psycho" and more. But an equal number of members came to the defense of this woman. Not in defense of her actions, mind you, but seeming to understand how a mother could reach this breaking point.

So, I watched the clip, and I tried to figure out how I felt/what I thought. This was hard to watch, because I knew that if she was publicly admitting to pushing her daughter and "hitting her on the arm", the odds were that she'd done much worse. Also, WHERE THE F*CK IS THE DAD?? I'm pretty sure that child has half his DNA, so he needs to get his ass of the couch and do his part. Overall, I can't completely condemn this lady, because thank God she had the courage to come onto national T.V. and admit to her feelings before she ended up possibly killing her child.

I sort of feel like we're putting special needs parents like this in a double bind. On the one hand, we want these parents to ASK FOR HELP. We say it all the time. "If only s/he had told someone!" Or, "Holy crap, autism wrecks yet another family!" Then everybody nods and posts "heart" and "hug" emoticons. Someone else puts up a Facebook page in memory of the child. We hold virtual hands and sing "Kum-bay-ya" by the firelight. Then we snuggle deep into our covers, secure in the knowledge that we would never even consider that as an option. And if we have felt these emotions, we post about it, showing that *we've been there*.

In NO WAY am I belittling or judging anyone who has done of the above. We all come here via different paths. I'm just pointing out a general trend as I've noticed it.

On the other hand, when these parents DO ask for help, knowing they will be judged, they find themselves at the center of a public stoning. These parents, warts and all, let it be known that they have reached their limit. They somehow find the courage to express their innermost thoughts, fears, emotions, and personal stories, and in turn, we hurl invectives, pass judgement, and point fingers. If we want things to change...really change, we can't continue to send such mixed messages to those of us who are, deep down, fighting the very same fight we are. Not if we expect things to change for the better.

You never know what you're going to find at Goodwill, but whatever it is, somebody else didn't want it. With *BONUS* wine and scotch reviews.

Several weeks ago, I bought a faboolous pale blonde mink coat for 29.99. This coat is swing-style, with a huge collar I can wear up. It goes nearly to my knees, and did I mention IT WAS IN PERFECT FREAKING CONDITION? I tried it on, and it was a perfect fit. I stuck my hands into the pockets (This is a very bad habit of mine. One day I'm going to get stuck with an AIDS needle, and I will have no one to blame but myself).

Soo! In the right pocket, I found the original receipt, dated 1972! The husband paid $1233.75 for this mink coat. IN 1972!!! There were even receipts for storage fees!  This coat was taken care of.

The heavily embroidered silk lining was in perfect condition. I snapped it up in a heartbeat, and ripped the price tags off the second it was mine. I had a strong desire to wear it out of the store. I had decided that my combination of yoga pants, a Bob Marley thermal, and Sketchers would perfectly offset my new mink coat. I was pretty sure that movie stars wore furs with jeans and such.

But. Just in case...

"Smell this. Does this smell bad? I asked my 10 year old son. I shook the fur in question in his face. He inhaled deeply. Because he's a rube.

It smells fine. It smells like that place. Here, he pointed a finger to the thrift store we had just recently exited. Ok, fine by me. I slipped the coat over my Bob Marley thermal and immediately felt The Swank.

*sidenote* I have absolutely no sense of smell. None. Whatsoever. Never have. I can't smell babies, cookies, flowers, or my own child's personal scent.

But....

I also can't smell pig farms, dead skunks on the highway, farts, decomposing flesh, or my own child's shitty diapers.

I'm pretty sure I'm winning.

So, I dropped my son off at home with my teenage daughter, and then I drove to UFS...wait. What is UFS, you ask? ONLY THE BEST FREAKING PLACE IN THE WORLD, THAT'S ALL!! UFS stands for Unclaimed Freight Store. Basically, it's shit nobody signed for, or wanted. So they sell alcohol at ridiculously low prices (name brand alcohol, I might add), as well as flooring, tents, grills, snacks, curtains, and mini-fridges. There is also another UFS across the street that sells furniture, dishwashers, refrigerators, and ovens.

The most important part about a Friday evening trip to UFS is making sure I'm there way before their 6pm closing time. I parked my car, stepped out, and sashayed in the automated doors. My mink coat swinging. The coat seemed to give me unnatural powers of speaking my mind, because once I found out that UFS was having it's bi-weekly wine/scotch tasting, I stepped right up. The wine girl asked which wine I wanted to try, and I said, all of them. It was cute how she pretended to think I was joking.

Then I meandered over to a table that had a bottle of Kahlua on it. But not just any bottle of Kahlua. This was a bottle of PEPPERMINT MOCHA Kahlua! So of course I had to talk out loud about this amazing occurrence. Which led to me being given several shots of Peppermint Mocha Kahlua. Then, I bought some cut-rate Little Debbie Snacks for my kids, the aforementioned Kahlua, and wine.

So I'm pretty much rocking it as a parent.

Condoms. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE! And, they're for marriage.

Friday night, my 14-year-old daughter had 2 friends spend the night, and they were watching "Jersey Shore" reruns on Netflix. All of a sudden, the camera cut to an unopened condom on the bar floor. Here is the conversation that followed:

Friend #1: That's a condom!

Me: How do you KNOW THAT??? You're only 13!!

Friend #1: _____ brought one to school last year and showed it to everyone...

Me: OMG WHAT KIND OF SCHOOL DO YOU GO TO???

Friend #1: He brought one to school in the 4th grade too. It's a pretty bad school.

DD: BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Then, from the dining room, where my 10-year-old autistic son (child #2) is on the computer.....

Child #2: Oh, condoms? For some weird reason, THEY ARE ALL OVER MY PLAYGROUND! ALL OVER THE PLACE!

Me: *choking* WHAAAT???

Child #2: Yep. They look like balloons! And they're kind of white. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!!!

Me: You don't...you don't...PICK THEM UP, DO YOU??

Child #2: No. I asked, and somebody told me they're for marriage.

Me: YEP. TOTALLY! THEY ARE TOTALLY FOR MARRIAGE.

Sometimes when you think you're getting The Bee Gees you actually end up with Bollywood. It happens, roll with it.

Sometimes  A lot of the time Most of the time, I like to go to thrift stores. As in, I pretty much meet the DSM-V criteria for an addict, only for thrift shops. And I've scored many a wonderful find, let me tell you. Like the time I bought a 1918 Rookwood Pottery piece hand painted by one of their A+ artists, for $1.98, and sold it on eBay for $405. Or the time I bought a Bakelite poker caddy for $5 at an auction, and sold it for $365. I'm just lucky, plus I have what some people call "The Eye." This is when you can walk into a room full of crap, and miraculously are drawn to the ONE THING that has any value whatsoever. I have that, and I really do count myself blessed. The money I've made selling those treasures has paid for school tuition, winter coats, and one ABSOLUTELY AMAZING Christmas. Also, for my divorce.

But when I walked into the Goodwill last week, nothing prepared me for what was about to happen. Sure, I may have found a strand of gray baroque pearls set in sterling silver and 18k gold, with matching earrings, but the real magic happened when I was in the check-out lane, perusing the used CD's. That's when I saw a copy of the soundtrack to Saturday Night Live. Woohoo! I opened it up and checked for scratches, and when I saw it was in pristine condition I popped that sweet little baby into my cart.

#WINNING

You know that moment when you open up your bag from the thrift store and think Awesome! I'm gonna to listen to the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever, while I nuke a couple of hotdogs for the kid. I'M SO EXCITED!  Then you notice that the actual CD is called, "Check It Out!" and has a bunch of songs that are NOT sung by Barry Gibb or Yvonne Elliman? And then you look a little bit closer and see that the songs are called, "Punjabi Party Mix", and "It Was Wrong Mix", or even, "Don't Sample This Mix?"  And then you pop it in the CD player, just for Ha's, give it a listen, and....and.... that's when you realize HOLY F*CKING SHITBALLS! I accidentally bought an Indian Punjabi dance mix!

That just happened to me.

Oooh. They're at a discotheque!

I won't rape you until we're married. I PROMISE.

 Look! Now we're MARRIED!!!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to listen to my awesome Bollywood CD. SO MANY TIMES.

Just when you think you're done with word problems, YOU FIND OUT YOU'RE NEVER DONE WITH WORD PROBLEMS.

My son has recently Discovered Time. Not time, as in, Oh hey, it's about 5:30. Time to start dinner. 

No. He has Discovered Time, as in, It is exactly 4:31pm. How many seconds until dinner is ready?

Basically, he has turned into a Time Nazi. At the beginning of this phase, when he wanted to know what time it was, I would say something like, Eh, it's around 5:30ish.

Which, if you've never encountered a Time Nazi, is totally not the right answer.

The correct answer is, It is exactly 5:28pm.

So now, when he asks for the time, I make him come to the kitchen and find that shit out himself.

Tonight, on the way to our martial arts class, we ended up discussing how the rate of velocity affects what time you arrive at your destination. This conversation took place completely by accident, and I wish I was a Time Lord, and could go back in time to erase the concept of time, rate of velocity, and all related concepts from his young brain.

But since I can't do that (legally), we ended up talking about how long it takes to drive a mile. Which is where the rate of velocity came in. Then he dropped it, and I thought Well, that was easy. Maybe his obsessive nature is taking a backseat this summer. Woohoo!!!!

Tonight, as I was enjoying my 2nd glass of wine, my child posed a question. A question that let me know the idea of Time + Rate of Velocity HAD NOT LEFT THE REALM OF HIS CONSCIOUSNESS.

The question was this:

If you are driving 59 miles per hour (please note that he did NOT round it up to 60mph. Because that would have been TOO EASY!), and the ocean is 100 miles away (We live in ILLINOIS), how long would it take you to get to the ocean?

Ok, I would like to take this moment to say, WHAT THE F*CK???!! I thought I was done with word problems back in 6th grade. WTF kind of bizarre joke is the universe playing on me? I'm the Language Arts parent, his dad was the Math and Sciences parent!!! F*CK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!

However....HOWEVER, I did not get to the age I am by being stupid. In fact, I am a firm believer in "work smart, not hard." So my first question to The Boy was this:

Do YOU know how long it will take me to get to the ocean?

He said no. Just as I suspected.

So I just made some shit up, I think I said something like, Well, according to my calculations, it will take exactly 1 hour and 39 minutes to reach the ocean. 

And everybody was happy.