Having a child with autism means that you see things through a very different set of eyes. Every parent of an autistic child knows exactly what I am referring to. For example: My son does not see a cardboard skeleton hanging on someone's front door as you and I would. He sees something much more terrifying. To him it is very real. It is really going to reach out and grab him. My son has a one track mind. It can be rather difficult at times to help him "jump the track" as it were.
Now, for a kid who's passion is dinosaurs and who loves to watch them fight and rip each others heads off, one would not think that Halloween would terrify him the way that it does. And sadly for my son, he has a mother who adores Halloween! Our house is covered with orange candy corn lights on the outside. Pumpkins, gourds and beautiful amber colored mums line all the steps leading up to the front porch of our 125 year old farm house. Cheesecloth ghosts made by my youngest daughter are hanging from the front porch waving to passers by.
And then there is the inside of our house. Scarecrows everywhere! Halloween trees covered with years worth of Charlie Brown and the Peanuts Gang Halloween ornaments. More pumpkins and huge yellow ware bowls filled with gourds. Pumpkin and ghost lights hang in all of the old windows.
So, my son is not without exposure to Halloween. If anything, I would have expected that he would have been desensitized over the years. Not the case. He does however, love to play with the Charlie Brown characters. He enjoys watching A Charlie Brown Halloween on television each year. He even picked out a new costume this year. Super Mario! (an amazing feat since he has been either Sponge Bob or a caveman for the past five years!) But the week just before Halloween his behavior starts to become worse. He is teary. He is moody. He cannot look at the store displays. He shouts "I hate Halloween!" over and over.
Yesterday was his class party. He made it through the entire day. This year his teacher did not invite the parents. That was a first! I think that was really hard for my son. He wanted to bring cookies to his party and went to the market and chose the cookies that he wanted to take to and share with his classmates. And he was quite proud of this. But by the time he came home from school, he was crabby, crying and snapping at everyone. He was scared and angry. He really could not function at all. So, I popped him in a big comfy chair with a warm a fuzzy blanket and he watched Shrek's new Halloween show over and over until dinner.
This morning he woke me up before 5 telling me he was all better and he could not wait to go trick or treating! I reminded him that it is just our friends and neighbors under all those costumes. Just the people you know son. The friends you see everyday! Cardboard is just cardboard. If it scares you, take a pair of scissors to it! It's all fun and just make believe!
He goes through this every year. He will go trick or treating. For all of 15 or 20 minutes. My husband will take him back home and I will continue on with his younger sister. When we do return home sometime later, his sister will give him some of her candy. (Make no mistake.....it will be the candy she does not like!) But that act of partial kindness will touch his heart and we will have peace and happiness in our home.... for a few moments at any rate!
So, I wish you a wonderful, safe and a candy filled Happy Halloween!
Life With Laura
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Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Happy Anniversary??
Wow. I blink and three weeks go by. My apologies! My children have been ill. Sinus infections. Ear infections. Unresolved sinus infections! I seem to spend all of my time taking someone to the doctor or running to pick up a prescription or fixing someone soup and crackers in between never ending loads of laundry. Some weeks life is a blur.
It was when I had my son at the pediatrician for yet another ear infection that the doctor commented about just how far along my son has come in the ten years since she has been treating him. My son, having been plagued with chronic ear infections since five months of age has been a frequent flier at the pediatrician's office. Having a child like mine with autism means I usually travel with a muscle bound entourage that can assist with holding him down to have his ears looked at in order to confirm the ear infection diagnosis. The staff has always cringed when my family entered the office. Never a need to tell the receptionist our names. We just smile and take our seats.
But this time, my son who is now 12, sat very still and cooperated. Granted, he talked through the entire examination. But he allowed the doctor to look, to touch and to listen. I was waiting for the world to end because this had never happened before! After wards, when she was commenting on just how far he has come during those past ten years, I realized that it was this very time of year ten years ago that my son was diagnosed with autism. My mind began to wander.
As I walked back to my car with my son I looked at him. I mean, really looked at him. He is 5 feet, 2 inches right now. He's big. He is strong. And he never shuts up! But I can still see that adorable little baby face with smiling blue eyes and dimples. They are still present. Not yet lost to puberty. I began to remember him a decade ago.
When my son was just two he did not speak. He screamed. He did not seem to understand what I was saying to him. He could not follow simple directions. He did however, do things that we felt were so unique and wondrous that surely he would grow up into something amazing!
If he wanted something out of the refrigerator, he would open the refrigerator door and then pull out all of the drawers in order to make a ladder to step up and fetch exactly what he needed from the refrigerator. He could carry a full gallon of milk and bring it to you when he was thirsty. He could assemble a puzzle in record time. My son could not talk, however he was an artist. The walls of his bedroom were covered with his crayon drawings of people. All very different looking. Some had glasses. Some had facial hair. Some had long hair and some had short hair. Some were smiling and were happy. Some were frowning and looked just as frustrated as my son clearly was. But all of it was beautiful. A treasure that I truly wish I had today.
These acts and behaviors, as we were informed by our pediatrician at the time, were not on the "normal" spectrum of pediatric development. So, we were sent off to a specialist. A pediatric neurologist. This specialist wanted us to first be screened by a genetic team which cleared us of anything genetically abnormal. So, after reviewing all of my son's records and reports he looked at us and said that he believed our son had autism. My husband said nothing. I held on tightly to my bouncy toddler and asked the neurologist if this meant my son was going to be bagging groceries for a living. He answered me with such coldness that it still angers me to this day. "I have many patient's that bag groceries for a living. What's wrong with that?" What's wrong with that? Everything.
Looking at him today I see so much intelligence and potential it overwhelms me at times. And there are those days where I think he will never get to college, let alone graduate high school! My husband and I made a pact the day he was diagnosed, that we would raise our son to be the most independent and self reliant, educated human being that we could raise. It is a constant battle. Being the parent of an autistic child means you never have a day off. You can never get sick. You sleep with one eye and one ear open at night. You hate, loathe and despise the term "Baby Steps"! And you learn that the saying is really "One step forward, two steps backward".
But our son is the gift that God has given us. He makes us laugh and cry. Sometimes on a daily basis. And I have yet to meet a purer soul on the planet. So bizarre as it may seem to celebrate a ten year anniversary of a life altering diagnosis such as this, I look at where we all were ten years ago and where we are now. And my greatest hope is that in another ten years that I can share with you the trials and funny moments of an autistic young man's college life adventure! So, my son keep at it and I wish you a Happy Anniversary!
It was when I had my son at the pediatrician for yet another ear infection that the doctor commented about just how far along my son has come in the ten years since she has been treating him. My son, having been plagued with chronic ear infections since five months of age has been a frequent flier at the pediatrician's office. Having a child like mine with autism means I usually travel with a muscle bound entourage that can assist with holding him down to have his ears looked at in order to confirm the ear infection diagnosis. The staff has always cringed when my family entered the office. Never a need to tell the receptionist our names. We just smile and take our seats.
But this time, my son who is now 12, sat very still and cooperated. Granted, he talked through the entire examination. But he allowed the doctor to look, to touch and to listen. I was waiting for the world to end because this had never happened before! After wards, when she was commenting on just how far he has come during those past ten years, I realized that it was this very time of year ten years ago that my son was diagnosed with autism. My mind began to wander.
As I walked back to my car with my son I looked at him. I mean, really looked at him. He is 5 feet, 2 inches right now. He's big. He is strong. And he never shuts up! But I can still see that adorable little baby face with smiling blue eyes and dimples. They are still present. Not yet lost to puberty. I began to remember him a decade ago.
When my son was just two he did not speak. He screamed. He did not seem to understand what I was saying to him. He could not follow simple directions. He did however, do things that we felt were so unique and wondrous that surely he would grow up into something amazing!
If he wanted something out of the refrigerator, he would open the refrigerator door and then pull out all of the drawers in order to make a ladder to step up and fetch exactly what he needed from the refrigerator. He could carry a full gallon of milk and bring it to you when he was thirsty. He could assemble a puzzle in record time. My son could not talk, however he was an artist. The walls of his bedroom were covered with his crayon drawings of people. All very different looking. Some had glasses. Some had facial hair. Some had long hair and some had short hair. Some were smiling and were happy. Some were frowning and looked just as frustrated as my son clearly was. But all of it was beautiful. A treasure that I truly wish I had today.
These acts and behaviors, as we were informed by our pediatrician at the time, were not on the "normal" spectrum of pediatric development. So, we were sent off to a specialist. A pediatric neurologist. This specialist wanted us to first be screened by a genetic team which cleared us of anything genetically abnormal. So, after reviewing all of my son's records and reports he looked at us and said that he believed our son had autism. My husband said nothing. I held on tightly to my bouncy toddler and asked the neurologist if this meant my son was going to be bagging groceries for a living. He answered me with such coldness that it still angers me to this day. "I have many patient's that bag groceries for a living. What's wrong with that?" What's wrong with that? Everything.
Looking at him today I see so much intelligence and potential it overwhelms me at times. And there are those days where I think he will never get to college, let alone graduate high school! My husband and I made a pact the day he was diagnosed, that we would raise our son to be the most independent and self reliant, educated human being that we could raise. It is a constant battle. Being the parent of an autistic child means you never have a day off. You can never get sick. You sleep with one eye and one ear open at night. You hate, loathe and despise the term "Baby Steps"! And you learn that the saying is really "One step forward, two steps backward".
But our son is the gift that God has given us. He makes us laugh and cry. Sometimes on a daily basis. And I have yet to meet a purer soul on the planet. So bizarre as it may seem to celebrate a ten year anniversary of a life altering diagnosis such as this, I look at where we all were ten years ago and where we are now. And my greatest hope is that in another ten years that I can share with you the trials and funny moments of an autistic young man's college life adventure! So, my son keep at it and I wish you a Happy Anniversary!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Flu Shots Today!
Have you ever worked in an emergency room and held down an out of control maniac tripping on PCP? That's what it is like holding down my autistic son when it is time for him to receive any kind of vaccine. No. I take that back. It is easier to deal with the guy whacked out of his mind on drugs. My son has the strength of at least two grown men when he is afraid of something.
My son is big. My son is strong. And my son is loud. Oh so loud. There were many nights when he was very small, that I would get up and make sure that the house was neat and tidy because I was certain the police would be knocking at my door to make sure I was not peeling the flesh off of his body just for fun. He was that loud.
My son was crying and yelling even before entering the doctor's office. As we walked inside the office, I can only equate it to the parting of the Red Sea. The staff moves very quickly. Children in the waiting room hide their faces in their mother's arms. Even though we did not tell my son in advance where we were taking him, he knows what is ahead. We are whisked away into a room ahead of other waiting children, which frankly seems to bother no one. My son is now cursing as well as screaming. His sister is dying a slow death and praying that like the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz, she could simply melt away into the ugly spotted tiled floor.
Before leaving us alone for a few moments so that she may prepare the flu shot, the nurse tries to calm my son which only enrages him and causes further screaming along with curse words that would make a seasoned barfly blush. The nurse tries to manage a smile and makes a speedy exit while I keep my son's hands out of striking range from her face. This autistic mom has developed superhero reflexes.
Several loud and anxious minutes pass before the nurse returns trying to conceal the impending injection that my son will be on the receiving end of. She looks at me and then at my husband and asks "how we are going to do this today?" Being seasoned pros at holding him down, we have a system. It is simply a matter of both of us throwing our combined body weights over his and each one grabbing an arm! We wrestle the boy into a chair. (I can do this because I took two multivites today, plus an iron tablet!) I throw my weight over him first covering the lower and less active portion of his anger crazed body. I grab one arm. My husband (who is a large and very strong man) then manages to immobilize the upper half of our son's body and somehow lock the section of upper arm destined to receive the flu shot today into place. The nurse moves fast. The boy is now a shade of red from screaming that resembles an over ripe tomato. She goes in for the kill. My son is calling her names that I am sure she does not even hear on cable, and in the blink of an eye it is over. We all tell him it is ok. He can stop screaming now. It is over. He does not hear us.
After telling him this several times, he realizes that it is in fact.....over. He can stop screaming. I thank the nurse and praise her for being so fast and brave. She has dealt with our son for about ten years now. She wipes the sweat off her brow and smiles a truly exhausted smile and exits the exam room.
Looking at my son I see that during his state of panic and rage he has blown a shoe. My husband helps him put the shoe back on as I wipe the tears from his face. I pull a juice box out from my handbag and give it to him knowing his throat must be on fire from all the screaming he has done. We make our way down the hall to the back door and exit the office in a far less intrusive fashion then our arrival a few minutes earlier.
With the children in the car, my husband and I look at each other and agree that we are too old to keep going through this. (Well, my husband is anyway.) It is very quiet in the car as my husband pulls out of the parking lot. Our daughter, still mortified is plugged into her ipod. I am too tired to speak. My husband just wants to get home. Silence. Then my son speaks. "How about you take me to Barnes and Noble now for a new book since I was so good at the doctor's?"
And that my friends was flu shot day.
My son is big. My son is strong. And my son is loud. Oh so loud. There were many nights when he was very small, that I would get up and make sure that the house was neat and tidy because I was certain the police would be knocking at my door to make sure I was not peeling the flesh off of his body just for fun. He was that loud.
My son was crying and yelling even before entering the doctor's office. As we walked inside the office, I can only equate it to the parting of the Red Sea. The staff moves very quickly. Children in the waiting room hide their faces in their mother's arms. Even though we did not tell my son in advance where we were taking him, he knows what is ahead. We are whisked away into a room ahead of other waiting children, which frankly seems to bother no one. My son is now cursing as well as screaming. His sister is dying a slow death and praying that like the wicked witch from The Wizard of Oz, she could simply melt away into the ugly spotted tiled floor.
Before leaving us alone for a few moments so that she may prepare the flu shot, the nurse tries to calm my son which only enrages him and causes further screaming along with curse words that would make a seasoned barfly blush. The nurse tries to manage a smile and makes a speedy exit while I keep my son's hands out of striking range from her face. This autistic mom has developed superhero reflexes.
Several loud and anxious minutes pass before the nurse returns trying to conceal the impending injection that my son will be on the receiving end of. She looks at me and then at my husband and asks "how we are going to do this today?" Being seasoned pros at holding him down, we have a system. It is simply a matter of both of us throwing our combined body weights over his and each one grabbing an arm! We wrestle the boy into a chair. (I can do this because I took two multivites today, plus an iron tablet!) I throw my weight over him first covering the lower and less active portion of his anger crazed body. I grab one arm. My husband (who is a large and very strong man) then manages to immobilize the upper half of our son's body and somehow lock the section of upper arm destined to receive the flu shot today into place. The nurse moves fast. The boy is now a shade of red from screaming that resembles an over ripe tomato. She goes in for the kill. My son is calling her names that I am sure she does not even hear on cable, and in the blink of an eye it is over. We all tell him it is ok. He can stop screaming now. It is over. He does not hear us.
After telling him this several times, he realizes that it is in fact.....over. He can stop screaming. I thank the nurse and praise her for being so fast and brave. She has dealt with our son for about ten years now. She wipes the sweat off her brow and smiles a truly exhausted smile and exits the exam room.
Looking at my son I see that during his state of panic and rage he has blown a shoe. My husband helps him put the shoe back on as I wipe the tears from his face. I pull a juice box out from my handbag and give it to him knowing his throat must be on fire from all the screaming he has done. We make our way down the hall to the back door and exit the office in a far less intrusive fashion then our arrival a few minutes earlier.
With the children in the car, my husband and I look at each other and agree that we are too old to keep going through this. (Well, my husband is anyway.) It is very quiet in the car as my husband pulls out of the parking lot. Our daughter, still mortified is plugged into her ipod. I am too tired to speak. My husband just wants to get home. Silence. Then my son speaks. "How about you take me to Barnes and Noble now for a new book since I was so good at the doctor's?"
And that my friends was flu shot day.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Happy Full Moon?
Here I sit. Latte in hand, hair all twisted up in a bun on the very top of my head in what I like to call my "Pebbles Flintstone" doo and as I rub the sleep from my eyes I look down to see that I am wearing yesterday's shirt......inside out.
I have been up half the night with my youngest child who has a fever of 104 degrees. The vomiting began around four a.m.. I don't do puke. I can handle many things. I don't do puke. I can wipe tushies, deal with spiders, fix numerous boo-boos, clean the nasty hair out of the tub drain, even unclog the toilet, but I don't do puke! As soon as a family member throws up I can feel that wave of nausea come over me. My legs go numb. My hands begin to shake. I do everything in my power NOT to barf. That power of suggestion is just too great. I'm a goner. I'm sick now. Wonderful. I can sense that it's going to be a very long day.
I dare not go back to sleep for fear of not waking my son up on time, getting him showered, fed and ready for his bus. So I watch the clock. Slowly the numbers change as I fight the urge to close my eyes for just a moment. Just a teeny little nap. Fifteen minutes ought to be enough to give me that burst of energy I need. That kick in the pants as it were. Forty minutes later I wake up in a panic and throw my son into the shower. I tell him that cold water is good for his skin. He will look so handsome today! I ignore his screams and rush around to pick out an outfit for him that somewhat matches, fling some toothpaste on his Diego toothbrush and hand it to him in the shower and yell "Here! Brush fast!"
Out and dressed and eating a waffle that is well toasted on one side and still slightly frozen on the other, we somehow manage to pull my son together just as his bus pulls up in front of our house.
Now on to my sickie. She is still burning up with a fever. So I phone the pediatric advice line and begin telling my tale to the person who answers the phone. She cuts me off and tells me she is not the advice nurse but will happily have an advice nurse call me with 30 minutes. If I happen to have caller ID blocking on my phone I will need to remove it in order to receive the call. Just hit *87. So I do.
Thirty minutes later a nurse calls and I repeat the entire story yet again. And basically, keep her hydrated, give it another 24 hours and bring her in tomorrow morning to see the doctor is what I am told. Great. Thanks. Do you really need a degree to dispense brilliant advise like that to a parent?
Now I am trying to put my caller ID block back on and it is not working. I have a sick kid. I have not been able to get out to Dunkin Donuts for my real woman coffee and still feeling sick to my stomach, I throw a chicken into a slow cooker (which I still refer to as my crock pot). It's still half frozen, but hey, it can just slow cook all day, right?
Fixing soup (I always have plenty of soup in my pantry) I pull out my mother's stainless steel platter that doubles as a lap tray. It's one of the few things I have from my mother. I adore fixing sick trays. Everything in it's own separate space. Compartment food. Nice and neat. Chicken and rice soup, little oyster crackers, water, juice and a pumpkin napkin. Tylenol on the side.
My littlest one hydrated and tucked away in bed, I come downstairs to check my email. I look at the calender and realize that today is the full moon. Of course it is! Everything will be back to normal (well, my normal) in 24 hours. My stomach is feeling a little better now. Time for a nap. I need to be awake tonight to see the beautiful harvest moon.
I have been up half the night with my youngest child who has a fever of 104 degrees. The vomiting began around four a.m.. I don't do puke. I can handle many things. I don't do puke. I can wipe tushies, deal with spiders, fix numerous boo-boos, clean the nasty hair out of the tub drain, even unclog the toilet, but I don't do puke! As soon as a family member throws up I can feel that wave of nausea come over me. My legs go numb. My hands begin to shake. I do everything in my power NOT to barf. That power of suggestion is just too great. I'm a goner. I'm sick now. Wonderful. I can sense that it's going to be a very long day.
I dare not go back to sleep for fear of not waking my son up on time, getting him showered, fed and ready for his bus. So I watch the clock. Slowly the numbers change as I fight the urge to close my eyes for just a moment. Just a teeny little nap. Fifteen minutes ought to be enough to give me that burst of energy I need. That kick in the pants as it were. Forty minutes later I wake up in a panic and throw my son into the shower. I tell him that cold water is good for his skin. He will look so handsome today! I ignore his screams and rush around to pick out an outfit for him that somewhat matches, fling some toothpaste on his Diego toothbrush and hand it to him in the shower and yell "Here! Brush fast!"
Out and dressed and eating a waffle that is well toasted on one side and still slightly frozen on the other, we somehow manage to pull my son together just as his bus pulls up in front of our house.
Now on to my sickie. She is still burning up with a fever. So I phone the pediatric advice line and begin telling my tale to the person who answers the phone. She cuts me off and tells me she is not the advice nurse but will happily have an advice nurse call me with 30 minutes. If I happen to have caller ID blocking on my phone I will need to remove it in order to receive the call. Just hit *87. So I do.
Thirty minutes later a nurse calls and I repeat the entire story yet again. And basically, keep her hydrated, give it another 24 hours and bring her in tomorrow morning to see the doctor is what I am told. Great. Thanks. Do you really need a degree to dispense brilliant advise like that to a parent?
Now I am trying to put my caller ID block back on and it is not working. I have a sick kid. I have not been able to get out to Dunkin Donuts for my real woman coffee and still feeling sick to my stomach, I throw a chicken into a slow cooker (which I still refer to as my crock pot). It's still half frozen, but hey, it can just slow cook all day, right?
Fixing soup (I always have plenty of soup in my pantry) I pull out my mother's stainless steel platter that doubles as a lap tray. It's one of the few things I have from my mother. I adore fixing sick trays. Everything in it's own separate space. Compartment food. Nice and neat. Chicken and rice soup, little oyster crackers, water, juice and a pumpkin napkin. Tylenol on the side.
My littlest one hydrated and tucked away in bed, I come downstairs to check my email. I look at the calender and realize that today is the full moon. Of course it is! Everything will be back to normal (well, my normal) in 24 hours. My stomach is feeling a little better now. Time for a nap. I need to be awake tonight to see the beautiful harvest moon.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
A Day with My Allergist
So today, having little or no incident with my little monster children in getting them off to school, I myself had an appointment with my allergist. I saw him last month when he ordered allergy testing via blood draw. I had that done three weeks ago and today went in to see if I was in fact allergic to anything.
I am, to say the least......not a good patient. Or, as my husband says I am not a brave little soldier! I admit it. Doctors give my the creeps. I associate only two things with doctors. Death and dying. And I have been suffering from both of these conditions for about 35 years now. So, today as I waited in the exam room listening to the sounds of a very busy allergy practice all around me, I wondered just how long it would be before my heart attacked me today?
I checked my pulse. Yes. Good I still have a pulse. Rapid and strong. Rapid! Oh God not rapid! I can't deal with rapid. I'm a slow and steady heartbeat kind of gal. My internist says I suffer from early beats. Early? I want them to be right on time! Not early or late! Then just as I begin to check my neck for yet a different pulse, my doctor walks in.
I guess my heart attack will have to wait until later.
So apparently after reviewing five pages of test results, I am allergic to a boatload of trees, grasses, molds and animals. Animals! Dogs and cats. Cats! Not to my beloved Hermoine! I love my cat. Especially since she hates my husband! I keep telling my husband that when I am old (OK, I mean really old!) I wish to become one of those cat ladies with at least 17 cats running all over the house! So I cannot really be allergic to my dream, can I? Oh crap.
He prescribes various medications as I breathe into a machine that simulates the popping of balloons and I am told to return in four weeks. If these medications don't work I shall have to begin allergy shots. No, no, no. Needles? Seriously? I am certain that all these wonderful medications will in fact work! I am counting on it!
I leave, still worried about my early beats, with samples and lab results in hand get in my SUV and head (of course) directly to Dunkin Donuts. Today's trauma calls for the drive thru. I am much to emotional to actually get myself back out of the car. An extra large Real Woman coffee ought to do it! I mean as long as I am still here and all.
I am, to say the least......not a good patient. Or, as my husband says I am not a brave little soldier! I admit it. Doctors give my the creeps. I associate only two things with doctors. Death and dying. And I have been suffering from both of these conditions for about 35 years now. So, today as I waited in the exam room listening to the sounds of a very busy allergy practice all around me, I wondered just how long it would be before my heart attacked me today?
I checked my pulse. Yes. Good I still have a pulse. Rapid and strong. Rapid! Oh God not rapid! I can't deal with rapid. I'm a slow and steady heartbeat kind of gal. My internist says I suffer from early beats. Early? I want them to be right on time! Not early or late! Then just as I begin to check my neck for yet a different pulse, my doctor walks in.
I guess my heart attack will have to wait until later.
So apparently after reviewing five pages of test results, I am allergic to a boatload of trees, grasses, molds and animals. Animals! Dogs and cats. Cats! Not to my beloved Hermoine! I love my cat. Especially since she hates my husband! I keep telling my husband that when I am old (OK, I mean really old!) I wish to become one of those cat ladies with at least 17 cats running all over the house! So I cannot really be allergic to my dream, can I? Oh crap.
He prescribes various medications as I breathe into a machine that simulates the popping of balloons and I am told to return in four weeks. If these medications don't work I shall have to begin allergy shots. No, no, no. Needles? Seriously? I am certain that all these wonderful medications will in fact work! I am counting on it!
I leave, still worried about my early beats, with samples and lab results in hand get in my SUV and head (of course) directly to Dunkin Donuts. Today's trauma calls for the drive thru. I am much to emotional to actually get myself back out of the car. An extra large Real Woman coffee ought to do it! I mean as long as I am still here and all.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sacred Monday
Ah.....Monday. Do you hear that? Nothing. Quiet at last. The children are off to school. The hubby is at work and here I sit with a real woman sized cup of coffee reflecting on the chaos of my morning.
My son had his usual Monday morning meltdown. My son is 12 and autistic. He did not want to get up today. He did not want to take his shower today, nor did he think he had to go to school. Why should he? He already knows what he thinks every 12 year old needs to know get get through each day. So what's the point. In his world of computers and video games and books all is complete and there is no room for such foolish and time comsuming things as school!
So, after what I consider to be a medium sized battle of the wills, he is showered and dressed and racing for the kitchen in hopes of beating his 11 year old sister to the best seat at the kitchen table and control of the all important television remote control. This morning, he lost. His sister was downstairs first. Let the next battle begin.
He is screaming. Why? Just because he can. You know. For effect. My son is autistic. He did not speak for the first four years of his life. We worked with him. Specialists worked with him. We hoped and prayed. Blessed him with Holy water. Be careful of what you wish for. He talks. Oh does he ever! In fact, we can never get him to stop talking. I mean it's bad when a parent tells their own kid to "shut up!" But I mean....even in his sleep! On and on and on he goes.......
So back to the screaming in the kitchen. So, while I am pouring juice, packing lunches, making pancakes, dishing out vitamins, brushing hair, getting book bags packed, along with making sure children are wearing two matching socks and sneakers for gym today, now I have to once again stand in between two fighting children over the television and yell louder so that they can hear me and tell them that there will be NO tv viewing if they cannot get along. He cries. She laughs. He gets even angrier and proceeds to stab his sister on the outside of her hand with his fork!
Thankfully, she (having grown up with this morning routine) is adept at foreseeing his actions and moved her hand so that she was just grazed ever so slightly. She looked hurt. He is still screaming. I am wishing I was anywhere else and wondering what I did in a past life that bought me this Karma during this life!
There are only about four minutes until his bus arrives, so I cram on his sneakers (not an easy task with his size 11's!) and shove his book bag on his back. Glasses on. Check. Lunchbox. Check. "Oh look! Here's the bus!" A yellow suburban pulls up in front of our house. He growls at the bus driver and gets in. I slam the door and blow him a kiss. One down. One to go.
Same checklist. Different child. Teeth and hair brushed. Get in the car. I may as well set my SUV on auto-pilot for the school. I drop her off and tell her I love her and to have a wonderful day. I speed away and head to Dunkin Donuts for what I like to call a "Real Woman" sized cup of coffee. The first sip of that hot, fragrant elixir and most of my chaotic morning seems a distant memory. I am revived. With coffee I can do anything! Well, almost anything. Now onto the dishes, laundry, floors, dusting, etc.
"Life with Laura" should really be called "Everyday Crap" I think.
My son had his usual Monday morning meltdown. My son is 12 and autistic. He did not want to get up today. He did not want to take his shower today, nor did he think he had to go to school. Why should he? He already knows what he thinks every 12 year old needs to know get get through each day. So what's the point. In his world of computers and video games and books all is complete and there is no room for such foolish and time comsuming things as school!
So, after what I consider to be a medium sized battle of the wills, he is showered and dressed and racing for the kitchen in hopes of beating his 11 year old sister to the best seat at the kitchen table and control of the all important television remote control. This morning, he lost. His sister was downstairs first. Let the next battle begin.
He is screaming. Why? Just because he can. You know. For effect. My son is autistic. He did not speak for the first four years of his life. We worked with him. Specialists worked with him. We hoped and prayed. Blessed him with Holy water. Be careful of what you wish for. He talks. Oh does he ever! In fact, we can never get him to stop talking. I mean it's bad when a parent tells their own kid to "shut up!" But I mean....even in his sleep! On and on and on he goes.......
So back to the screaming in the kitchen. So, while I am pouring juice, packing lunches, making pancakes, dishing out vitamins, brushing hair, getting book bags packed, along with making sure children are wearing two matching socks and sneakers for gym today, now I have to once again stand in between two fighting children over the television and yell louder so that they can hear me and tell them that there will be NO tv viewing if they cannot get along. He cries. She laughs. He gets even angrier and proceeds to stab his sister on the outside of her hand with his fork!
Thankfully, she (having grown up with this morning routine) is adept at foreseeing his actions and moved her hand so that she was just grazed ever so slightly. She looked hurt. He is still screaming. I am wishing I was anywhere else and wondering what I did in a past life that bought me this Karma during this life!
There are only about four minutes until his bus arrives, so I cram on his sneakers (not an easy task with his size 11's!) and shove his book bag on his back. Glasses on. Check. Lunchbox. Check. "Oh look! Here's the bus!" A yellow suburban pulls up in front of our house. He growls at the bus driver and gets in. I slam the door and blow him a kiss. One down. One to go.
Same checklist. Different child. Teeth and hair brushed. Get in the car. I may as well set my SUV on auto-pilot for the school. I drop her off and tell her I love her and to have a wonderful day. I speed away and head to Dunkin Donuts for what I like to call a "Real Woman" sized cup of coffee. The first sip of that hot, fragrant elixir and most of my chaotic morning seems a distant memory. I am revived. With coffee I can do anything! Well, almost anything. Now onto the dishes, laundry, floors, dusting, etc.
"Life with Laura" should really be called "Everyday Crap" I think.
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