What I Read: I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames by Jeni Decker

I was perusing the local bookstore, looking for something to read while I am on a break from classes until April 8th. (Please don’t be like John and point out that I have both a Kindle and a Nook Color–I know, and I like them, but they cannot replace physical books for me.)  I actually was looking in the sociology section, hoping to find some tome on kick-ass females in the business world, just enough to motivate me for the hell I am about to endure as I am about to triple up the few undergrad courses I need before starting MBA hell. And I saw this book. I didn’t even read the subtitle. I’ll admit that the cover art intrigued me. And it found its way into my hands. And I bought it. My initial thought was, ” this woman has two kids like Evan? What a friggin’ saint!” So I bought this book and several others, and headed to the checkout.

I certainly didn’t expect to devour it in one night. The chapters are quick little stories in themselves, written in a real, humorous voice. This made it easy to read in bursts. Zachy eating dinner? Read a quick chapter. Evan working on homework? Read another. The kids in bed? Finish off the whole thing.

This book is special to me. So special that I found myself geeking out and writing an email to the author. To which I got a response in one day. Not from an assistant, but from her, which is most decidedly cool of her.

What is so special about this book? Well, other than a few minor changes, I could’ve been reading about my own life. Though Zach is not autistic, with the nonverbal-ness and developmental issues we have had as of late, he reminds me of her youngest son, while the oldest is much like Evan: starts out quirky and just a little odd, ending up with a diagnosis–high-functioning autism.

Here’s the thing: I can write little snippets from my life and you can shake your head along with me, laugh with me, cry with me, whatever. Until you have lived in this house, there will always be stuff I just cannot explain. Stuff you would not believe. Like why it is just as important to keep a supply of disposable latex gloves beside the toilet as it is to keep the toilet paper stocked. Why you have to be very careful of the words you choose, as theywillbe remembered and come back to bite you in the tuckus. As a matter of fact, as I was typing this, my oldest angel came out of his room, demanding ice cream at one in the morning, as his room is not the perfect temperature and cold ice cream will somehow help his system reach equilibrium. Mind you, it is 1 AM, and he is not getting ice cream, and I had to convince him of a scientific reason for not having ice cream at 1 AM to get him to go back to bed. Despite the fact that he is bleary-eyed and zombie-like from the melatonin we have to give to him to get him to sleep in the first place.Thatis my life, folks. And it seems to be Ms. Decker’s as well. If she knew me, she would not tell me that my child just needs a good “ass-whoopin’” or that he is simply just spoiled. She would understand.

And while the theme of this book is autism and what it is like to parent autistic children, it does not read like an autism book. And while you can sense a sort of sadness, it doesn’t read like a woe-is-me sobfest, either. She writes of her experiences in a voice that is comical, with the celebratory sense of appreciating the gifts and differences of each child, of getting to the root of what makes them tick and parenting them as best she can. And if I were an autistic boy, I would want Jeni Decker to be my mom.

I needed this book. In the same week as the Wal-Mart incident, of venting to a coworker I can trust and hearing her tell me that it seems I just need to “bust Evan’s ass”, after having the convo with Evan as to why he cannot go to Grandpa’s this summer (seems Grandpa is also of the ass-busting opinion from his safe perch 4 hours away, and as a result, will not give him any meds thanks to his hippie girlfriend). After all of this, I was feeling very lonely. As if nobody gets it. Evan is an awesome kid. I feel privileged to be a part of his life. But parenting him is one of the biggest challenges I have ever faced.

So if you are interested in autism, know someone with autism, know someone who knows someone with autism, or even if you just like a good story, you should read this book.

I Wish I Were Engulfed in Flames: My Insane Life Raising Two Boys with Autism by Jeni Decker.

No, I Do Not Need the Police

My own personal Hell. Really.

It all started wih Lego KidsFest. Fuckin’ Lego Fest, my ass.

I have been bribing the Medium Male in the house for months. I already told you how he has this rationale that he can simply pass all of his subjects simply by showing up for tests without doing homework. He just scores that well on his tests. So his therapist and I concocted this plan. Somehow, someway, I had to get Evan interested in doing homework. We had to find what motivates him and exploit the shit out of it. She helped me come up with the token system. For each day Evan came home and did homework without meltdowns, he could earn up to two tokens. I actually agreed to give him $5 for every token he earned to be spent in the store inside of Lego Fest. Because they were coming from the actual company, I knew they would have some seriously cool stuff that he can’t find in Toys’R'Us or Wal-Mart, and that he would want said stuff. Come hell or high water, I was going to motivate this kid to do homework. His therapist actually calculated and he had the potential to earn up to $560 to spend on fucking Legos. She kind of looked at me as if I were the one needing therapy, but whatevs. I am that desperate to end the fucking homework drama. Plus, in the back of my mind, I never thought for a second that this shit would work.

We made a big production of the token system. We went to the store that night and picked out a special jar. I let him pick out what we were going to use as tokens, and he picked those glass beads you use in floral arrangements. We bought a calendar for him to use to count down and track his progress. We even made a label for the jar on the computer. Well, Evan did. He called it the “Evan Did A Good Job Jar”. Except it really says “Evan Did Good Job Jar”. And I held to my word. He earned…….wait for it…….$45. Forty-fucking-five out five hundred and sixty. See, I told you. And then he got desperate, and we caught him shoveling handfuls of tokens into the jar one night, as if I was dumb enough to not keep track of how much money I would have to ultimately spend. So he had $45. If you know anything about Legos, you cannot buy shit for $45.

Two nights before the big event, I had to get some groceries. We all went to the store. Evan wanted his $45. No way. I know how this works. I’ve been to this show before and I know how it ends. I give him the $45 and tell him that’s it, not to cry at Lego Fest because I am not giving him anymore money if he spends it now. It doesn’t work because he will have a meltdown, and in order to prevent the calling of social services, I eventually give in. He gets what he wants. But this time, I am resolute. I am NOT DOING IT!

I get my groceries while trying to keep Zachy calm, as it is a little late for him and he’s fussy. We “Oh, Oh, OHYEAH” our way through the store with a nonverbal toddler who is on the verge of his own meltdown around every corner because he wants something and there are so  many things to want that we cannot tell what it is. I get to the checkout and for some reason, my bill is about $150 more than I thought I had spent. I paid it, but was seriously perplexed. I spend about $250 in groceries every two weeks, unless it’s diaper-buying week and then it is around $300. Since there were no cases of Pampers or wipes in the cart, why was my bill $408.63?????

So we get to the car, and I am doing my usual of glancing in each bag before loading it in the car. I try to keep the cold stuff easily recognizable because, with my two kids, you may not get an entire trunkful unloaded at once and have to pick your priorities. And as I am doing this, I start seeing the most random……shit.

An economy pack of toothbrushes–ten fucking toothbrushes.

Those Rubbery bath squirter toys for babies.

A couple of paperback books. One was a Harlequin romance-type, which, hey, is really not my style.

A toy truck.

A bath loofah.

Women’s El-Cheapo body spray that has nothing on the Versace shit I use–I’m a high-class bitch, y’all.

The list goes on, but I see what happened. We gather as much of it as we can find as we are loading the groceries, and John heads back into the store with the receipt to explain what happened and get my money back. We managed to recover $95 of it. Which is when it happens. Evan melts down. And I mean MELTS DOWN!

He locks me out of the car. He starts screaming and flailing arms and legs, elbows and knobby knees. Thankfully Zach wasn’t in the car, as John had sensed what was going to happen and took him back in the store with him. So Evan is kicking up HELL, smashed a dozen eggs with his fists on purpose, was punching the glass and kicking my seats as hard as he could. (Incidentally, thank you to Dodge for making a car that doesn’t easily destruct on the inside–the designer must have a kid with issues!) He gets out, gets back in just so he can slam the doors. He gets out and runs, totally barefooted through the parking lot, yelling that I am abusive and he is going to walk home. He must not have liked the dark or the feeling of his bare feet on concrete, so he runs back and gets back in. tries to lock me out again. 3 sets of people…..THREE….stop me to see if I need help. All I can do at this point is hold up my cell and my little remote car-unlocker thingy to signify that I can get in my car and am just choosing not to at the moment, as I suck the living hell out of a Marlboro Ultralight. (yeah, I know I shouldn’t smoke, but as an RT, my foolish decision was at least an educated one, and now is not the time to deprive me of that damned cigarette. I wasn’tinthe car smoking it.) As many more people asked me if I needed them to call the police for me. other than that, everyone else was just staring in the direction of my car as the screams carried across the parking lot.

No, I do not need you to call the police for me. I need you to turn your head while I fuck this kid up. I don’t want to be on the news tomorrow: “Health Care Professional Beats Child in Wal-Mart Parking Lot”. No, not really. I would never do that. But God, how I wanted to at that moment. And I could be angry that they didn’t see that this was not just a run-of-the-mill tantrum and be angry that they thought that this was a proper suggestion. In truth, I had thought the same thing. After 15 minutes of this, I was checking my pocket to make sure my phone was outside of the car in case I had to call the police. And by the way, where the fuck was John? Wal-Mart people, you seriously need to do something about the wait time in your lines.

Do you know what it is like to think you may have to call the police to protect you from your own ten-year-old kid? To protect him from himself?

Well, let me tell you, if I can. Because this is me and we all know I am going to tell you. It is pretty sucky. In the time the thought is going through your mind, what you feel is a barrage of emotions. Regret that you ever procreated, mixed with fierce love and desperation that there has got to be something you can do to fix your kid. Sheer loathing for your own life mixed with gratitude that it is you who has to do this because another parent would have probably killed him by now. Angst. Utter and complete angst. Reluctance, as in, can I really start this ball rolling? Fear. For him, for you, for the innocent person he would hurt if they got in his path at that moment. Knowing it will probably do him some good, but unable to handle it yourself. Embarrassment that it is possible that you did something wrong and maybe it is your fault, and what fucking parent needs law enforcement to step in? And so you keep a death grip on your phone, knowing it is there, and maybe if you wait it out one more minute, one more second, the fit will be over and he will just be your baby again. But if he doesn’t, the phone is still there, right in your hand. Just in case. Just in case.

The turmoil stopped. We went home. Evan, acting as if nothing had ever happened, asked if he could get on the computer to play a game. All I could do was look at him through tired eyes and tell him no, that he had to get a bath and go to bed. To which his response was to do just that without fight.

As we unloaded the groceries, we found even more of his stuff. Women’s deodorant. Toddler toothpaste. Kitchen sponges.

John actually cracked up when he found the last item. A trial-size pack of Tampax Pearl tampons. Regular.

Hey, Evan. I’ve had two kids. At least next time, get the Supers.

We Do Not Beat Our Children, Schedules are Meant for Rearranging, and More Discoveries

We’re all about discoveries here in the Bitchypants household. Here are a few new ones.

We are finding the need to defend ourselves as parents. Not that anyone has accused me of anything. But still. Zach is into, well, EVERYFUCKINGTHING. He climbs up, crawls over and under, dives off of any surface he can find. And more and more, he is getting the little bumps and bruises of toddlerhood. And when you go out in public and your baby has a big bruise, you feel like you have to tell the story of how to everyone. He climbed up on a rolling toy…..he dove off of the arm of the sofa….he slipped and fell. This last one was a little harder to expalin. John was getting him out of bed in the morning and Zach was doing his usual game of “Catch me, Bitch” when John reached for him and Zachy head-butted John’s hand. Only John’s finger made contact with a little toddler eye. Yeah. Zachy go his first black eye. Insert big frowny face here. The evidence:

See! Even in the photo, he is climbing on a toy, reaching onto my desk. Seriously, kid!

Schedules are meant to be rearranged. Fo’ reals, yo! But here is the most awesome picture of the past week:

See that? No conditions there. Just my admission packet. For my MBA program. I am officially in. No ” You should be fine.” No “conditional admission”. Just……in. IN. IN!!!

So I made an appointment to schedule my classes for October and the shit got tricky. I only have three courses left to take of my first-year MBA program. What they call the foundation courses. And those are offered in intensive half-semesters. I finish the BSBA in September, so I could start the second half of the MBA session in October. Except none of my classes are offered then. They’re all offerred in August. They were going to make an exception and let me start while simultaneously finishing my last month of my BSBA, but ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME???? I have a job. And kids. And I do not have a death wish. Especially considering that my first semester of the MBA will be full of financial accounting, macroecon, microecon, and one of the 700-level courses. No. So the solution? This summer, while John is off of his classes, I am going to triple my BSBA courses so I will finish August 15th and can start the MBA the following week. So I learned that where there is a will, there truly is a way.

Evan is a Con Artist. Seriously.

All of this time, we have been fighting him over homework. He made a confession to his therapist. Since he gets perfect test scores, he can pass without completing his homework, so in his mind, why should he do it? So on the nights when he fights and has meltdowns, we try and try before finally giving up and sending a note to his teacher. The next day, she keeps him in at recess to do what he didn’t do the night before. But it got to be too much. And so she changed it up. Now, he gets a zero like everybody else. And the result? He’s doing his homework. And scoring even higher on tests.

The proof is in his science test from this past week. My kid has been conning us all. Little booger.

Zachy started speech and is making strides every day. And he is getting it. Proof? Yesterday in the car, John missed his exit on the interstate, and responded with a “DAMN!!!” And from the backseat, crystal clear, we hear this baby voice say, “Damn!” The other day Zachy was playing outside and he was getting close to the infamous snake sighting of 2010. And I exclaimed, “Zachy, no, SNAKES!” To which he exclaimed, “SAKES!!!!” N left out intentionally. We say “Bus”, “WalMart”, “Evan” or “Bubby”, “Eat”, “SpongeBob”. He signs for “more”, “please”, “help”, “all done”, “eat”, and “drink”.  And e has the  cutest, throaty baby voice that melts my heart. I realized this is the first time I am really hearing it.

I was thinking about the next month or so when I realized that I never requested off for Zach’s second birthday. I was assuming it would fall on Saturday this year since it was  Friday last year. But it is Sunday. It’s Mother’s Day. His second birthday. The 13th. Mom’s birthday used to fall on Mother’s Day sometimes, too. And I hate Mother’s Day. And this year, we really can celebrate. Npw more than ever, I think Mom sent Zach to me. And P.S.–how in the hell is he already going to be turning TWO????

I think that about sums it up. For now. I’m sure there will be more as drama unfolds. We always have some of that.

The Great Cabbage Patch Controversy

My name is Andrea, and I bought my son a doll. There, I said it. You would’ve thought I bought him a machine gun. Wait. Perhaps that would be more acceptable, more masculine.

The Offender

Zach plays with his stuffed animals by cradling them and hugging them as if they are babies, but yet when he gets close to a human, he swats and bats at faces, inflicting pain. I thought about it, and thought perhaps a doll that looked more like a baby would help him. He could do some role play and learn to be gentle and nurturing.

I knew his dad would hate the idea, so I knew better than to buy him a doll that was dressed in a frilly pink outfit or had bows in her hair. That really would have been pushing the envelope. What I needed was a masculine-looking doll. A doll that looked like a boy, was dressed like a boy. A less girly doll. Yeah. Have you ever tried to find anything that has anything to do with traditionl domestic role play that is not pink and frilly and…..grrrrrrr. Toy vaccuums, shopping carts, kitchens. Toy mops and brooms, dishes. All of them. Why? My real vaccuum isn’t pink. My dishes aren’t, either. My stove, refrigerator….none of it is pink. Why in the hell are we doing this to our children?

So  after scouring the internet and finding nothing, I gave up on the doll. Until last week. We were at Toys ‘R’Us when I saw a boy Cabbage Patch Kid. I had been looking at the dolls, reliving memories of my childhood. I had been the first on my block to get one when they first came out. Parents were getting in fist fights over the dolls, and my mom was right in the middle of that. The limit to buy was 10, and she bought all 10 to give to the girls in the family as Christmas presents. But not me. I got one of mine that day. I’ll never forget it. His name was Earl. He had on a blue cuorduroy outfit, was bald with big blue eyes. I was remembering all of this and thinking if I knew a little girl who would want one. As I moved the boxes around, looking at the different dolls, I saw the boy way in the back. A doll. No pink. Big blue eyes like Zachy’s.

And I bought it. The boy doll I had been looking for all of that time. We brought him home and I took him out of the box. His name is Kelton. And I handed him to Zachy, who promptly hugged him and put the doll next to him on the seat of his Cozy Coupe. Success.

Until I absentmindedly posted something on Facebook about, “Yay! I found the boy doll I was looking for for Zachy.”

I started getting e-mails. The phone rang a few times. People, who shall remain nameless and were too cowardly to post anything publically on Facebook, have a serious problem with this. Finally, John, who was with me when I bought it and had no protest then, is making snide comments when Zach so much as looks at the doll. I am going to confuse Zach. I am going to upset the balance. I am going to —GASP!—TURN HIM GAY!!!!! (These aren’t John’s words, but some of the comments I got from others.)

Zach and Evan are growing up in a family where the mom is the breadwinner and has the career, is on the fast track to an MBA. Their dad does the laundry, the cleaning. He runs the vacuum about three times a day (don’t ever get chocolate-brown area rugs, people–they show every speck of lint!) and washes the dishes. We split the cooking. He is the one to taxi Ev to and from school. To the point that one time, we went to a school function and one of the other mothers mentioned that she thought we were divorced because she never sees Evan’s Mommy. I believe there are inherent diferences between men and women. Some of it is put upon us by society. Some of it is hard-wired by biology. Both nature and nurture win. A prime example? I love pink. I like smelling like flowers. I hate getting dirty. You would never catch me fishing because I will not handle a fish. I hate most sports, other than college football. I watch chick flicks and cry when the situation calls for it. My husband can bench press a lot more than I can. But I am driven, aggressive, down-to-business. If you piss me off, I will let you know. If you are wrong, I’ll let you know that, too. I hate bullshit and will not allow you to dish it to me. I multi-task with the best of them.

Do not ever make the mistake of telling me something is not my job because I am a woman. Other than peeing while standing, I doubt there is anything I could not learn to do. Hell, if I were willing and had some practice, I could probably even manage that one. And if there is nothing I cannot do, and it is unacceptable to place me in a little stereotypical box, then it is certainly unacceptable to do so to either of my children at a time when they are growing and developing and learning who they are. At some point, they will choose the paths they want to take. They may be gay or straight. They may  choose to play in dirt or stay indoors and bake cupcakes. They may be construction workers, chefs, teachers, doctors, lawyers. Presidents of the United States. Or they could choose to stay home and be caregivers to their children while supporting their significant other so he or she can go out and kick ass in the world.

Just like I can do whatever I want, so can they. And whatever they choose, it will have not one damned thing to do with a doll I bought them while they were a toddler.

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles–Wait, No Planes

Well, mainly because I hate to fly. I’m not once of these crazy-scared ones. I’ll get on a plane. I just don’t like it and fear for a fiery death in the back of my mind the entire time. Maybe it’s the whole laws-of-gravity thing, as in I’m fat and we shouldn’t tempt fate by keeping me up in the air like that. But anyway…

A couple  of new developments. Katie, the photographer from Heaven, had an opening for a session with the boys and I couldn’t pass it up. This time was a lot simpler and exhausting at the same time. The boys were dressed very casually as we met at a local train museum. Well, really it’s like a train graveyard, full of old cars–cabooses, engines, passenger cars. There were even some switches and lights for he boys to play with, and I literally put Zach down and told both boys to just go, all while Katie did her snap-snap-snap  thing. Today, she posted a few on her Facebook page as a sneak peak, and I love them. Once again, she captured them so well that it is as if my babies live in these photos.

This last one is proof, at least to me, that even when he’s hurting, Evan eats the camera. Maybe it is just me, but I can see the pain underneath in this photo, despite the fact that he had sent over an hour running and playing, and just being a kid.

Remember when John said he wasn; going to call his family until they called him, all after their reaction to our telling them of Evan’s issues? Well, John is John. And Friday was his mother’s birthday, so he couldn’t not call her to wish her a happy birthday. It’s just who he is. But the end resul is that after his mom sounded “sad” on the phone, according to him, we are making a trip down there for Thanksgiving, albeit a short one because I have to work Thanksgiving night. This ccould be very interesting. I’ll keep you posted.

Please Tell Me How

I realized tonight, while I was sitting here in a dark and quiet house, bawling my eyes out, that I never updated after Evan’s emergency psych meeting.

Evan has all but been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. In the last post, they were suspicious. Now they are saying that the anidepressant they started him on did indeed send him into a mania, and now we have to somehw straighten him out while still ensuring that all are okay. We met with his therapist, and instead of her talking to us for a few seconds and then talking to Evan, she talked to me for the whole session and I told her the uncensored version of all that is going on. The end result is that Evan is on the waiting list for admission into the partial hospitalization program. Currently, there are 3 children ahead of him on that list, and once 3 kids are discharged, it will be Evan’s turn. He will be in the program as long as is necessary to ensure he is stable. He will be there from 8AM to 4PM, not 5. There is a school teacher that comes there, so it will be my new job to pick up Evan;s daily work from school and return completed work every couple of days or so in order for the teacher there to keep him up to speed on it. My next task was to speak to his teacher and principal at his school so they will be updated and know what to expect.

It is supposed to go quickly. As in, we’ll get a phone call and be expected to have him there the next morning. And that will be that.

I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that they will be able to give him meds there, under close observation, that will help him and not make him even sicker. I’m hopeful because, unlike seeing a psychiatric nurse practitioner, he will see an award-winning psychiatrist who will care for him while he is there and we will automatically jump to the top of the waiting list when he is discharged. Maybe this is what we need.

But then there’s the other part to this.

How? Do you know? I have no idea.

I have no fucking idea how I am supposed to take my brown-eyed miracle and drop him off at a psych unit. How I am supposed to leave him there, not linger and walk away. How the hell I am supposed to hear the doors shut behind me and know that they are locking me out and Evan in. And that will be it. The point of no return. And with that, Evan’s record will permanently state that he has been treated in a psychiatric facility, that this counts as a hospitalization. I am trying to remind myself that he will get to come home and eat dinner with us nightly, sleep in his own bed. Somehow, though this makes it a little more tolerable, it does not relieve this deep emotional panic I am experiencing. It’s still a psych unit, regardless of whether he gets a nightly pass to come home with us.

I honestly feel like my soul is crushed. I just want to take Evan away to some deserted island. Just us. And spend my days and nights telling him how special he is. How, even though I love his little brother fiercely, he was first. He is still my little baby, too. I’d recount for him all of the funny stories from the days before his memory took over, and bask in the brightness from his smile. He wouldn’t cringe when I kiss his cheek and he wouldn’t shy away from my hugs. He’s be my Evan, free from whatever ails him and turns him into to someone other than my AngelPie.

I cannot handle this. I can’t. I can–and have–taken a lot of shit in my life. I have come back from most of it, even if some of it left permanent scars. But I cannot do this. I can’t. I’m not strong enough.

A Good Ol’ Ass-Whoopin’

Okay, first of all, I’m angry.

Evan isn’t doing so well these days. Remember the post about bullying and Evan being the receiver? Turns out that isn’t so true. It was all a huge manipulation, and it turns out that, while Evan can occassionally be on the receiving end, he is often the giver, too. There is no “poor Evan” in this. None whatsoever. I was so angry and shocked, and even hurt. How could he lie like that? I just do not undersand. We give him love and attention everyday.

The issues he has been having are getting worse, too. I have, so far this year, bought multiple coats and belts. A belt is required as a part of his uniform. He always loses his. And gets sent home wearing a lost-and-found belt that has to be returned. And I buy a new one. The coat…I have no idea there. He did the same thing last year. He wears one to school in the morning and doesn’t come home with it. Gym clothes, we cannot seem to remember those…EVER. And the homework. Gah, the homework. It is unbelievable haw bad the turmoil can be in this house. It goes on for hours and hours. He lies to us about what has to be done, only to have a note sent home the next day, yet he still has straight-A’s.

There is more. I was wondering, and fearing, and hoping it wasn’t true. Little Zachy flinches if you reach out to touch him quickly. It’s even worse if it is his face–as in to smooth his hair or brush a crumb off of his face. I wanted to know why. That is a learned reaction, after all. Who in the fuck has been hiting my baby? So I grilled John. No answers. And I tried to help Zachy know that he will not be hurt by being extra gentle with him. No swatting of hands when he gets into something, no pats on he diapered butt. NOTHING from ANYBODY.

And then my heart sank. A few days ago, during one of his rages, Evan reached up from his place on the floor and shoved Zach as hard as he could. I unleashed hell on him, I was so angry. Zach is just a baby. I was sure it would never happen again. My reaction actually seemed to scare Evan. And then he did it again the next day–not a shove, but an actual slap.

Earlier in the week, we had to call the after-hours psychiatry line. I had worked 3 in a row, which means that I was only here to sleep. After the weekend was over, John let me know that Evan had not slept. For days. On one particularly bad night, John said he had to get Evan out of the living room 10 times throughout the night. And no wonder he can’t sleep in his room. I wouldn’t be able to either. It looks like it belongs on an episode of Hoarders, even though it was just thoroughly cleaned by me a couple of days ago. He hoards trash, broken toys, outgrown clothes. As soon as it is all cleaned up, which takes a whole day, it is back like that before you know it.

There is something wrong with my son. I’m not even sure this is Asperger’s anymore. I am very scared for him. I want him to get better. The psychiatry people are questioning Bipolar Disorder now, and wondering if he is in some sort of mania. My heart is broken. We cannot stand the thought of admitting him to the hospital, and the psychiatry people think this may be more traumatic for him, as we would have to leave him on a locked unit for many days and nights, only seeing him during visiting hours. There is such an animal as partial hospitalization, where he goes to the hospital and stays there from 8AM to 5PM everyday and sleeps at home with us. They are talking about that as a feasible option that may help him. Which brings me to the whole point.

Tonight, John called his mother to let her know that we may not be able to visit for Thanksgiving afer all. He told her Evan wasn’t doing so well and they were talking about partial hospitalization. That we are having a hard time. Mind you, we have been stock-piling this stuff for John’s niece who just had a baby yesterday. She is breastfeeding, and I offered to let her use one of my pumps. I bought her all of the supplies for pumping, a high chair, and about $500 in brand-name baby clothes. Even then, she had the gall to ask me to stop everything and bring her the pump—4 hours away–a month ago. I told her the baby is full term and she really needs to be physically nursing right now, anyway. I was going to take her the stuff when we go down to visit for Thanksgiving. If it is that damned important that she have a pump now, she can rent one from Babies ‘R’Us for about $60 until I take mine down there. I shouldn’t do anything because, after all I have done, she asked me to buy her a very specific crib and mattress. So there is already a sort of soreness there. So tonight, John tells his mom that our son is possibly going to be receiving inpatient psych care—her grandson—and her response isn’t words of concern for Evan, but asking how we are going to get our niece–her granddaugher–the stuff we bought. I was so pissed. But that isn’t the best part.

Not long after, John’s dad calls. He wants to know why Evan is possibly going to need this care and why we are letting this happen. John told him the psychiatrist–from a world-reknowned children’s hospital, mind you–thinks it may be best for Evan right now, that he is having bad problems. So then John’s dad asked why we took Evan to psychiatrist in the first place. Ummmm, because we were referred by our doctor and because Evan has been having worsening problems for years? To which John’s dad responded that Evan just needs a GOOD OL’ ASS-WHOOPIN’.

Thanks. Because I never thought of that. What would I do without him?

Yeah, I’m ashamed to admit that we have thought of this a long time ago. We tried spanking. I don’t believe in it, but we were desperate and honestly just thought Evan was misbehaving. You know what happened? Evan laughed at us and continued with the behavior while I cried that I endorsed hitting my kid. And we vowed to never do it again. When Evan is in one of his rages, I would dare say he doesn’t feel physical pain. Spanking will not work. We would have to beat him to within an inch of his life to make him feel it. I cannot hurt my child, for one.

And since when does abuse cure illness? Mental illness is as much an illness as cancer or a heart condition. If you’re having a heart attack, I am not going to be able to beat it out of you. I am so tired of this shit.

Yes, I’ve thought about extracurriculars for Evan. They didn’t work. Not Cub Scouts, Basketball, Karate, Foresters.

Yeah, I’ve tried spanking before we realized there was something seriously wrong. Other things I’ve tried? Removal of privileges, taking his things he loves away, grounding, time-outs, positive discipline, rewards for desired behavior, points and demerits systems, money. None of that shit worked, either.

I have even opted to send him to small, expensive parochial school so he would receive more attention. Spending money I really could use for something else, by the way.

None of this has worked because Evan is sick. So sick. And I am done with my in-laws. Completely finished. You know what they say about a straw and the camel’s back. Well that shit is as broken as it gets.

Holding Hands

Today, I tried something new, since John had the stroller with him in the car. Zach and I walked all the way to the neighborhood park, which is a pretty good distance when  your legs are 6 inches long (Zach’s, not mine). Zach did well, and his hard work was rewarded when we arrived, as he saw the swings and jungle gym and sand pit in a whole new light now that he is old enough to really enjoy them. Of course I took the camera, and I am glad I did. But I am not about to bore you with another long post of photos, all of Zach climbing on this or that, swinging, digging. But there is one photo I got that made my heart sing just a bit. And mourn a little too.  I intended to get just Zach in the photo, but I got something a little different this time.

Holding hands. Zachy and Mommy.

I have held both of my boys to my chest when they were really small. I’ve rocked them to sleep and cuddled them. I have kissed boo-boos and nursed a teething baby. I have stayed up all night, combing through my brain and baby books, trying everything to soothe a colicky baby. I have witnessed first words and first steps. I have had my day brightened by beaming smiles and the sound a baby giggles and childish laughter. But somehow, they grow. And they outgrow the little ball configuration on your chest. They get too big to wear in a wrap close to your heart. At some point, and you don’t even realize it at the time, but you look back and realize that the last time you nursed them was really the last time. If you would only have known, just had a small clue, you would have cherished it a little bit more. But just like that, it becomes a memory instead of something you just do.

And at some point, the concept of holding a child’s hand, of guiding them, becomes less literal and more of a metaphor for raising them. Oh, I still hold Evan’s hand. Just somehow, he doesn’t realize I’m doing it and the act is invisible to the eye. I hold on because I am their mother. And I love them enough to help them navigate the world as they find their own way. There is some cheesy quote out there, and forgive me for not knowing the exact words, or even the author, but it mentions that parents hold their child’s hand for a little while, but their heart forever.

One day, most definitely sooner than I would prefer, I will have to let go. It is at that point that I will hope that the cheesy quote is right. But for now, I’ll keep holding on.

Aspie Update

The schedule is getting rather overwhelming. Therapy once a week with the psychologist. Psychiatry every few weeks while we play with medications. In other words, every few weeks, Evan has 2 appointments in one week, always on different days because nobody’s schedule ever lines up so we can do it all at once. Thankfully, I have excellent insurance, but we are still paying about $500 montly for meds and appointment co-pays. I have to start a flexible spending account at work to try to offset some of this, but I want to save the right amount, so I am, as of right now, meticulously keeping track. This week, Evan was started on Celexa, the big-time antidepressant in the category with Prozac. This, of course, was added to his Adderall. According to the psychiatrist, it will mellow him waaaaaay out. The label tells me to watch for suicidal thought and actions, that these are most common in children and teens. So now I am worried for my son even more than before but we have to try something. Since we have started with the people at Children’s, it is almost as if the issues have gotten worse. More powerful and intense meltdowns. Aggression. Mood swings. And school? Terrible. I am hoping that it is because, with prodding from the psychologist and psychiatrist, deep-seated issues are coming to the surface. And for the past few appointments, Evan is meeting with the therapist alone. So he can speak freely about what is bothering him. And I wonder and worry about this, too, with his history of storytelling. But if it helps him,  I’ll justt bite my tongue.

His teacher means well, and we have told her of the homework difficulties at night. Her solution was, when we couldn’t take anymore, to put the homework away and send her a note or email and she would make Evan complete the work the next day during recess. I mean, what kid wants to stay inside for recess when they could be out playing with classmates?

Evan. Evan would rather be inside and away from his classmates, even if it involves doing math or writing sentences.

Turns out that his status as the “weird” kid in class has earned him a place on the receiving end of some cruelty from the other children. One of whom has a father who works with me. I want to put those children in their place so badly that I cannot stand it. I want to go and belittle them, call them names, make cruel and uncalled-for statements and watch their faces contort with their tears for hurting my baby. Those little bastards. Those little monsters. I really want to hurt them as they have hurt and emotionally fucked my child, only to get in their faces in the end and ask them how it felt to be on the receiving end. To see how they like it. Can they not see the good in Evan? That he could be a great ally and a fun friend? But I won’t because I am an adult. I am a resonsible adult and I cannot do it. I realize they are just kids. But I hate them all for hurting him. I never thought I would say that about kids, but damnit, a mother’s love and a mother’s scorn are both some serious shit.

My child has gotten to the point where he avoids recess and lunch and anything else that involves a chance for these kids to torture him. Smart, smart Evan. Poor Evan. And I feel terrible because the only way he had of communicating this to us was to fight with homework so he would be punished by having recess taken away. It reminds me of the time when he was about 3. Everyday at daycare, he would call the same teacher a name. We couldn’t figure out why it was the same time of day and always with the one teacher. Turns out that he hated naptime and her punishment would be that he would get “quiet time” at his desk for the infraction, which meant reading books. Well, that isn’t a punishment for Evan, who has always read books. It took some figuring out, but once we did, and she stopped using this method of discipline, the name calling stopped.

But this isn’t about naptime. I have a hard time intervening in a behavior that he is doing as a defense mechanism.

So we go through this. Day in and day out, we go through this. I am hoping the continued therapy and the new medicine will help and that our name will quickly reach the top of the waiting list for our official evaluation so we can be doubly sure that this is what we are dealing with.

Incidentally, I came up with this today. There are tons of articles like this all over the internet, and it is kind of troublesome because it almost makes Asperger’s look like a badge of honor. It isn’t. But Evan has some very good company.

Famous People with Asperger’s Syndrome, Official or Suspected

Bill Gates

Alfred Hitchcock

Sir Isaac Newton

Jane Austen

Albert Einstein

Charles Darwin

Hans Christian Andersen

Henry Cavendish (discovered Hydrogen!)

Satoshi Tajiri (Father of Pokemon)

Jim Henson

Charles Schulz

Thomas Jefferson

Michelangelo

Mozart

Dan Akroyd

George Orwell (Animal Farm, 1984)

 Beethoven

Thomas Edison

Woody Allen

Mark Twain

Henry Ford………

 

Maybe one day, this will be a consolation for Evan. As in yes, he’s different, but look at all of these awesome other people who were, too.

 

Happy 17 Months, Zachy. (All Night Blog-a-Thon #5 and Final)

Zachy-Poo is 17 months old today.

Wow. It flies.

So where are we? Well, I’m starting to worry a bit again, even though I know from experience that he does everything in his own time.

He still has the whole Caveman-grunt thing going on. You can say whatever you want to him and he seems to understand almost everything. “Zachy, bring me those shoes.” And he does. “Do you want some juice?” And he walks to the kitchen. “Give me the red block.” And he does. But he won’t say  any of it. He says Mama, Daddeeeeee, Bubby, Mooo (for cows), bye-bye. He waves. He plays independently when appropriate.  He walks, he runs, he climbs. As a matter of fact, one of his favorite things is to climb on the new coffee table and dive into John’s recliner. Cute? yep. But it makes me a nervous wreck, especially after his bath when he is wearing footed pj’s and can easily slide on the table. Gah! And he loves, loves, loves looking out the window. He will climb all over the back of the sofa just to get a peek outside. And my favorite thing he does now? “Zachy, gimme a kiss!” And he comes up to you with little fish lips and plants one right on your cheek while making the muaaaaa sound. It melts my heart.

We haven’t made any progress on the swaddler, pacifier, and just-before-bedtime 2 oz. bottle. I think I am going to start with the bottle this week, gradually reducing the amount he gets until he doesn’t get one anymore. Then the swaddler. Then the binky. He mainly only uses the pacifier for sleep, anyhow. We try to keep them away from him during the day, but he is cutting molars and has been a little tyrant lately. Poor baby. And you know how they tell you that you can try and try to keep things away from kids and they will just improvise anyway? Well he has quite the collection of large wooden puzzles–the kind with the knobby handles on the pieces. He must have been looking for a pacifier and couldn’t find one during playtime, so I caught him walking around with a puzzle piece in his mouth backward as if it were a pacifier.

And he dances. AND he has rhythym. To anything, really. My ringtone on my phone is “Icky Thump” by The White Stripes. And I swear, everytime my phone rings, he starts doing his little dance. It is so adorable and funny. Tonight, we were in the car and I had some rap playing. John looked back and cracked up because Zachy was fist-pumping. I swear. I gotta stop killing my brain cells and his by watching Jersey Shore around him. (yeah, I just admitted that publically, and I equate it to a train wreck where you just can’t look away, no matter how much you want to do so.)

He is starting to thin out a little bit. I bought him all 24 Months clothing for the Fall, and they fit decently enough to already wear. It seems they get bigger on him everytime he wears them as his shape changes from that of a chubby baby to the shape of a little boy.

I’m afraid he is going to follow in my footsteps in one way I hoped he would not: my sensitivity to everything. This week, where he ised to have only a tiny patch the size of a quarter on his lower back, he has developed large patches of eczema all over his back and starting on his belly and thights as well. We have got to revert to the days where we wash all of his clothes seperately in Dreft. I also have to switch back from the baby bath products I use on him to the Baby Phisoderm that I used up until he was about 10 months old.

We’re practicing using spoons and forks and sitting at the big table without the highchair tray. For right now, he mainly just uses the utensils as a shovel to scoop the food out of his bowl and onto the floor beneath him. It is hard not to give in and just try to feed him or to resist the urge to just give him finger foods in order to eliminate the hassle, but I know he has to learn to eat like a big boy.

He is still very much the baby. Cuddly. Sweet. He will come up to us, curl into our chests and make the “Awwwwwwww” sound. And he’ll stay there for a while. He does the same with stuffed animals. He’s just a Cuddle Bug. This is why I think it is so hard to break him of the swaddler and why I think it was so hard to break him of the bumper in his crib. He would scootch up to where he was snuggled up against it and fall asleep. Now he has cold wooden bars to cozy up to. But we did it. We were successful in that, at least.

He is starting to get a little bit of separation anxiety. He’ll follow me to the door when I leave for work and I can hear John trying to comsole him as I walk away. It breaks my heart. Now, he has even gotten to the point that when he sees me put on scrubs or my stethoscope around my neck, he knows what is going down and will cling to my legs. Absolutely one of the worst parts of being a parent, that it. But it has to happen. Especially considering my addiction.

Zach has turned into to quite the little fasionisto. I was organizing and purging his closet the other day, and I was horrified. He has 23 pair of Pediped shoes. Because he needs them all for his outfits, damnit. Each pair matches certain outfits. The problem is that he is now wearing their Flex line, and they are about $50 a pair. yeah, do that math. I gotta stop. It is an addiction, but I insist it could be worse. I’m not one of these moms out there spending a ton on themselves while their kids wear rags. (John insists that these habits of mine are to blame for Evan’s metrosexual tendencies. My bad. But having a penis is no reason to not be put together well!)

So anyhow, that is the update on Zachary. Still an angel. Still a miracle. Still my baby.