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.

A day in the life.

Today, I had some free time between clients, so I decided to go get my driver's license renewed. Except I wasn't wearing any makeup. Shit. What's a girl to do? 

Thinking....thinking.......

That's right. I drove to the nearest Ulta and totally used all of their makeup to beautify myself for the stupid DMV photo. Except, in the process, I ended up purchasing $110 worth of makeup from Urban Decay. Which was exactly 3 items. And? I still wasn't able to renew my driver's license.

Well played, Ulta. Well played indeed.

Then I ran a bunch of errands, did a bunch of paperwork, and got home. Not 15 minutes had gone by before I heard my 10-year-old son Z, moaning helplessly for me, from the half-bath off the kitchen. Sometimes he needs to squeeze my hands when has to make a really big poop, so I obviously assumed this was the issue. I cracked my knuckles in preparation, and stepped into the bathroom.

It wasn't a big poop. Instead I he was perched on the toilet, holding a piece of toilet paper on his left shin, looking up at me with mournful eyes. I was confused, but only for a second. Then I remembered his habit of picking/scratching at scabs and halfway healed cuts. Then this conversation happened:

Z: *moaning* Mamaaa! Help me, I'm bleeding!

Me: *sigh* You've been picking at a scab again, haven't you?

Z: I need a band aid quick! 

Me: *bigger sigh* Ok, hang on. Let me look for one....

Z:  Owwww!! Ow Ow Owww!!!!

Me: *eyeroll* Ok, here. I found one, let me put it on.

At this point, Z began squealing in agony as he nimbly avoided allowing me to place the band aid on his cut. He is very wily, and his maneuverings required much dexterity on his part, considering that was still on the toilet.

Me: Dammit Z! Let me put the freaking band aid on you!

Finally, he allowed me to tend to his cut, and I finished putting away the groceries, mistaken in my belief that we were done with the subject.

But no, we were not.

Z: *still on the toilet* Do you want to know what really happened?

This gave me pause for thought, as I began to sense that this injury was not his run-of-the-mill picking injury.

Me: Sure.

Z: I shaved my legs.

Me: *choking* You did WHAT??

Z: Yeah. I found a razor in the sink, so I shaved my leg when I was on the toilet.

Me: ............

His sister happened to be in the kitchen at this point, and our eyes met in mutual understanding, compassion, and absolute f*cking hilarity. And totally silent laughter, because he's sensitive.

Poor Z.

Despite his sensitivity to to social faux-pas, Z was completely oblivious to the absolute silence following his announcement. 

Me: Why????

Z: *calmly* Well, I wanted my legs to be all silky-soft and smooth, so I would have something nice to pet.

I should explain that Z is extremely sensory-seeking when it comes to petting soft things, and getting tight hugs. It's just part of the grab-bag that is my fabulous son.

Me: Hmm.....well....I bet you know not to do that again.

Z: But feel them! Feel my legs, didn't I do a great job? I mean, they're SO SOFT!!!

At this point, my 14-year-old daughter decided to join in the conversation. She knelt down (he's still on the toilet, remember), felt his legs, and remarked, he really did do a good job Mom. You should feel them.

So I leaned down and felt my 10-year-old son's legs. And it's true, they were silky smooth.

I nonchalantly grabbed the razor out of the bathroom sink, and tossed into the garbage. Just then, Z called out to me, you should really hide those razors from me. I'm pretty sure I will want to do this again.

Minty green eggs sans ham, I met Shinedown, a broken wrist, and Happy Mother's Day!

Tonight, I was scrolling through my unpublished blog posts, looking for something to post. Because I'm totally lazy like that. And I found this. Apparently I wrote it sometime in May.....

Last year, for Mother's Day, my daughter made me green eggs, sans ham.

I bet you're thinking that she colored them with the green food coloring in our pantry. You would be WRONG.

She ignored the green food coloring, and instead used the 8-year-old peppermint extract that she found waaaay back in the obscure cupboard that also contained 2 rotten potatoes and a bottle of alum I bought for a science experiment when she was in 1st grade. So....for Mother's Day 2012 I got a breakfast of potentially toxic minty eggs.

Also? She and my son gave me a flower that "we pooled all of our money together for!" Awww, right? Except when I was looking for change in my wallet later that day, I discovered that my wallet was empty.

Turns out I paid for my Mother's Day flower.

Well played, children. Well played, indeed.

This year, I decided to take Mother's Day into my own hands. Or hand, actually. Since I broke my wrist 4 days (May 2013) ago at a Shinedown concert.

That's right. I AM the klutziest person you know.

WHICH WAS AWESOME.

The concert, not the breaking of my wrist. I saw Shinedown in Moline 2 months ago (February 2013), and it honestly was a much better venue than where I saw them Tuesday *cough*Springfield*cough*. Also, I had a broken wrist then.

This was the 2nd of three casts I got on this wrist

I break easily.

But I got to meet the band, and they all gave me hugs! And Brent Smith KISSED. MY. BROKEN. WRIST. 

*swoon*

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.

Goats+tranquilizer darts = PURE WIN

Back story. My deceased ex-husband had a machete and a field-radio, both of which his grandfather brought back from WWII. My son is OBSESSED with the machete, which I've been wise enough to hide from him because....

Most of the time, Zach forgets about the machete's existence. And then there are days like today, right after I dropped his sister off at tutoring:

Z: When I grow up, I can use my machete to cut throught the jungle underbrush, right?

Me: We live in Illinois. There is no jungle underbrush.

Z: But just in case, I could, right?

*I have already hidden all sharp knives, scissors, box cutters, and razor blades from this child. Primarily because he has no concept of his own mortality.

Me: Probably not. You don't need a weapon.

Z: Well, then I'll get a gun! When I'm older you can't tell me what to do, and so I'm going to get a gun. Not to kill anyone, though.

Me: So what are you going to use it for?

Z: Hunting.

*My son is a big softie, and would never harm or kill an animal. Unless it's a rollypoly. And even then, those were accidental deaths.

Me: You know that means you'd have to actually kill an animal, right?

Z: I would only hunt ducks. Because they're kind of ugly.

Me: Ok, except after you kill the duck, you have to rip out it's feathers and take out it's insides. Then you have to eat it.

Z: *completely aghast* Is that a rule?

Me: Well, yeah. You can't just kill an animal and leave it to rot. You have to eat whatever you kill.

Z: *thinking* I know! I'll only shoot GOATS.

Me: And then you'll eat them?

Z: Oh, I forgot. Do people eat goats?

Me: Uncle Asshat ate curried goat in Jamaica, remember? Some people do.

Z: Oh yeah! Remember that episode of The World's Biggest Cheapskates? That guy ate a goat head. He even ate its EYEBALLS!!!

Me: *sigh*

Z: Ok, how's this idea. I'll only shoot the goats with tranquilizer darts. Then I'll sell the goats to farmers. It's a win-win, right?

Me: .......

Z: Seriously Mom, I'm going to make a TON of money.

Because nothing tastes better than a grilled chicken with a can of beer shoved up its ass.

Tonight the kids and I spent the day with my best friend, her 2 kids (who are friends with my 2 kids), and her husband. K and I drank margaritas, the kids swam, and her amazing husband grilled ribs and 2 chickens. It was amazeballs. So good.

K's  husband cooked something called, "Beer-Butt Chicken", and I've never had chicken that was so juicy and yummy in my life.

If you've never had (or heard of) Beer-Butt Chicken, then you've come to the right place, because I'm going to tell you how it's done.

1. Buy a whole chicken
2. Rinse it
3. Heat your grill to 350 degrees
4. Open a can of beer
5. While holding the chicken vertically, shove the can of beer up the chicken's asshole
6. Open another can of beer
7. Drink this beer in an attempt to forget the fact that you just anally assaulted a dead chicken
8. Use toothpicks to hold the skin together at the neck
9. Set the chicken, ass side down, on your grill
10. Shut the grill lid
10. Walk away for 1.5 hours
11. Use kitchen shears to cut the chicken open, because that beer can is going to be HOT
12. Eat that ish
13. Go to the store and buy your wife and her friend more margaritas
14. Clean up after dinner while your wife and her friend drink
15. Do some laundry

Ok, 14-15 are optional, but that's what K's husband did. I'm pretty sure it made the chicken taste better.

13 is NOT optional, however K's husband seemed to feel that it was, so we got no more margaritas. :(

Happy belated Father's Day to all the single Mommas out there. Doing it on the daily.

Yesterday, I drove my daughter to camp. It's a 6 day camp, and they aren't allowed cell-phones, ipods, or any other means of electronic communication.

So for the next 6 days, it's just me and the boy. This is what our first day alone sounded like:

6:43am - MOOOOMMMM!!! Waaakkke upppppp!!!!!!

6:44am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?

6:59am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?

7:16am - Can we have pancakes for dinner??

8:51am - Can we have pancakes for dinner????

9:32am - Mom? MOM! When are you going to wake up? Guess what??  I found an experiment online...for ice cream!!! It called for, um....milk....and vanilla...and, um...a cup of sugar...and some, um...cocoa powder...and salt.

9:33am - Can we have pancakes for dinner?

9: 54am - I come downstairs. The kitchen floor is covered in a fine dusting of sugar, cocoa powder, and salt. Also? There's a huge puddle of milk by the garbage can.

9:55am - I cry a little.

9:56am - I set my alarm for 6am tomorrow morning

10:59am - Z informs me that the biggest decision he will ever make is finding the right woman to be his wife.

11:00am - I totally fall in love with my son, all over again.

11:06am - Z tells me that his future wife should: like food, not be "too large", have a good sense of humor, be fit but "not stronger than me", kind, smart but "not geeky smart, 'cause then she'll say, "there's no time for love!!!", love to snuggle, love to cuddle, like video games, like to wrestle, and be kind. Not once does he say, "she should be pretty/beautiful/attractive."

11:07am - Z tells me that "a person can look nice on the outside, but still be ugly on the inside."

11:08am - I consider my job as a parent well done.

11:59am -  Can we have pancakes for dinner????

1:47pm - He begins to assemble the ingredients needed for pancakes. Three hours before dinnertime.

5:12pm - Guess how high I can pull my lip up over my nose!

5:13pm  - Mom, you weren't looking! Watch me pull my lip over my nose! I saw a show with a man who could pull his lip ALL THE WAY OVER HIS NOSE!!!! 

5:40pm - Mom, look! I can touch the top of my head with my foot! Watch!

5:41pm - Wait, that wasn't right. Look now!

5:43pm - Ok, now I'm ready. Watch!!!

6:01pm - Look how fast I can run from the stove to the couch! No, you're NOT LOOKING! Look!

6:05pm - Mom? Are the pancakes ready yet? Can I flip them? That's my superpower, you know. Flipping pancakes.

6:06pm - Is it time to flip the pancakes yet?

6:08pm - Yaaay! Time to flip the pancakes!!!!!

6:14pm - Mom! Look!!! I made a pancake taco!

7:32pm - Mom! I can kiss my own toe! Wanna see how flexible I am? Watch, I can kiss my own toe!!!!

8:03pm - I come to the realization that this family is supposed to be made up of THREE people, one of whom is having a fine time at camp while the other two-thirds are struggling. Struggling with patience and fine motor skills.

8:41pm - Mom! I'm going to wrestle with the couch pillows! Is that ok?

9:04pm - I have to poop. Will you come upstairs with me? I'm not scared, you know. I just like company while I poop.


This post is dedicated to all the single mommas out there. Taking it as it comes, rolling with the changes, thinking fast, acting faster, and never letting that bitch called life get you down.

You rock.