The One Where My Car is Toast

Let me start by saying that I have never gotten a ticket or been in any sort of accident. Period. Until last week. That is when this happened:

Yes, we’re all okay. My car, as you can plainly see, is not.

We were loaded into the car to go to the grocery store. Seatbelts buckled. Phones put away. John looked both ways before backing out of the driveway. He let cars pass. The coast was clear, so he backed out. Just as he stopped the car and put it into gear to pull forward and go on our way, we felt the impact. We didn’t see a thing. We didn’t hear squealing tires to indicate someone had slammed on their brakes. We didn’t hear a horn. Nuthin’. We just felt the impact. And when I got out of the car, I was standing in my front yard from where the vehicle was hit with enough force that it was thrown there. I was spitting blood and gagging as more and more blood filled my mouth where I had bitten clear through the right side of my tongue. Evan was as white as a ghost and Zachy was screaming his head off.  But we were okay. And then I realized that the other driver hadn’t stopped yet, and so while dialing 911, I was jumping up and down, waving my arms in the air, shouting, “No! Stop!” She finally did by my neighbor’s driveway. And this all happened in one blurry instant. I remember telling the 911 operator to send the police, the no, I didn’t think anyone needed an ambulance, that I was a healthcare professional and would speak up if I thought we did. It was craziness.

So what happened? Well, we live on a connecting road between a really bad neighborhood and a really good neighborhood. About two miles from my house are those metaphorical tracks on which you do not want to be on the wrong side. Everyday, they fly by here, with no regard to the speed limit or that our children might be outside playing. You can tell the cars: older, no mufflers, beat-up. But for some reason, they tend to have really nice sound systems. And so, when John ensured the coast was clear, he backed out. I would say that my car was 3/4 of the way out of the driveway when one of those drivers came flying around a curve that is about 500 ft. from our driveway. She was apparently talking on a cell phone since her boyfriend arrived before the police did. We were nice, as were they. But they struck me as the type of people to observe everything, even remarking  that “Her purse must have been at least $500!”  Yeah, bitch, it was. I work hard for my money. But regardless, we made the police report and I called my insurance company. We proceeded on to dinner, since there was no way I was up to grocery shopping with Mr. Asperger and his toddler sidekick. And I sure as hell was not going to cook. But on the way to dinner, we hear this wop wop wop wop sound. No, that is not an ethnic slur. I’m German/ Italian, so even if it was, I have license. Our only hope at 7PM was to stop at a tire place, which is where we found out that the damned frame of my car was bent, that the back passenger side wheel, though not dramatic, was bent inward. “Dog-legged”, he called it. And that, no, my car was not safe. That I could hit a pothole and have my damned wheel break off. I was upset. Then Evan started complaining of neck and shoulder pain. Enter a trip to the ER with my poor baby for whiplash. He was okay, though. Ice and antiinflammatories for a couple of days.

And then I got kinda okay. Then maybe a little relieved. I mean, we needed a bigger car, right? But I was too stubborn and insisted on paying off this one and making it last as long as possible, since I bought it brand-new 3 years ago. So I started looking online.

And then I found out that they can fix it, that it is not totaled because they can “pull” the frame. So instead, I get a whopping repair bill to the tune of $6K. Well, insurance does. I just have a huge deductible. And I was expecting to not have to pay it. We were still waiting on the official police report, but she was negligent. Speeding, most likely talking on the phone, no attempt to warn us, no attempt to stop, evasive behavior.

Wrong. Fucking Wrongwrongwrongwrong.

Because the police report was wrong. It said we backed into her, not that she hit us in the side. So my insurance adjuster told me to call the police to have it amended. The proof is in the cars: mine is obviously nailed on the side, sweeping toward the back. Hers is on the headlight. There is no physical possibility that we backed into her. And the police? Well they wouldn’t fix it. They said it makes no difference, since we were backing out.

So in other words, do whatever the hell you want to do. If you hit a car that is in reverse, regardless of what you are doing, it will always be their fault. It’s complete bullshit. It isn’t fair.

So now? Now we have a beast of a rental car. And I am awaiting a body shop to give me an entirely new ass end. To the car, that is.

So much for my record.

If This is Sexism…

There is a photo I posted on Facebook a couple of days ago. It is the screen shot of my new schedule of my first MBA semester. The comment I put along with it was, “Can I just say how totally kick-ass I think it is that all of my professors for my first semester of my MBA are women?” I think most people got it. Some did not, and one of the comments I got was from the girlfriend of my father-in-law, who prides herself on being more progressive. She asked why this would matter and stated that, to her, I sounded sexist.

Hmmm.

I remember when we moved after I had finished school. We had actually been homeless for a month before hand. We needed money. And somehow, after one of my first job interviews, I had a job making real money for the first time in my life. Complete with a sign-on bonus, relocation assistance, and other benefits. We went from sleeping in a fleabag motel with most of our posessions in storage to moving into a upscale, expensive rental. I did that. John didn’t have a job. But I studied my ass off as a nontraditional student in order to get straight-A’s, a list of professional contacts, and more, to set me apart from all of the other new grads in my field and land a good job. I was so proud. And when I called to get utilities turned on at our new, nice house, what happened? They didn’t want to turn them on, and told me to have my husband call back. I remember my response to this day: “Ma’am, I would be glad to have my Master call back, but when it comes time for a bill to generate and you expect to be paid, you will have to deal with me, as my husband doesn’t work. I am the head of this household.”

But it did something to me. That, along with my upbringing, have shaped me.

My mother raised seven children. Seven of the most ungrateful children in the world. She was married to my father all of her life. And she never had a job outside of the home. She did a good job, as we never wanted for a thing. I grew up with elaborate meals prepared three times a day. I never did laundry or dishes because my mother never wanted us to. Mom made our world go ’round and Dad footed the bill. But then Mom started to get sick. And by the time I was a senior in high school, she was too ill to take care of herself, let alone any of us. What did we do? We got her signed up for Meals on Wheels and a home health nurse. I was just a kid, still in school, but the next child in line from me was eight years’ my senior. And she lived right around the corner with her husband, didn’t work, and her children were in school. Interestingly enough, nobody had time for the woman who had raised them, who had surrendered her entire life to doing right by us. While I was at school, nobody could even be bothered to bring her lunch. She would be hospitalized and in the ICU, and nobody would come and see her. I would try to leave school, but by then I was a freshman in college and prohibited from having a car on campus, so I was reliant on family to get me home when the situation called for it. The night she finally died, however, they all remembered their way to the house to raid her jewelry box of the diamonds and emeralds (her favorite and her birthstone) that Dad had bought her in their 35 years of marriage. One sister even had her 4ct. solitaire into a jeweler for appraisal and sizing the very next morning. And what about Mom’s last days? She would cry because her kids didn’t come to see her. She was miserable because, once she had no more to give, they lost interest.

Never in a million years would I allow that to be my life. I don’t want it. She wouldn’t have wanted it for me, and I refuse to let her down. I am bound and determined to shirk the traditional gender roles and live my life how I see fit. You could call this selfish of me, but then I would remind you that I make my living helping people breathe when they cannot do so for themselves. And while this is most decidedly not a commentary on being a homemaker, it is a testament to the fact that, while my mother may have had limited choices, I do not. And I have made my choice. I will never buy into the idea that my ownership of a  vajayjay means there is a damned thing that I cannot do in this world.

So life has taken me down many paths. I’ve had many plans, some of which have worked and some of which have not. Sometimes I have had to backtrack to where the road forked and take the other path. This is the case with business. I came into the world of business because my life took a turn when I was surprised with a pregnancy right before applying to medical school. Sometimes, I mourn that, but Zachary is amazing and I do not regret the path one bit. I surprised myself with an aptitude for this subject: business. I believe I can reach the top of my game. But if I do, I will be in limited company.

Let’s crunch some numbers:

15.4%= The percentage of female corporate officers in Fortune 500 companies, as of 2011.

14.8%= the number of board seats held by women in the same.

2.4%= The percentage of female CEOs of Fortune 500 companies.

22= the number of female CEOs in  the Fortune 1000 companies.

Out of a thousand companies, only 22 have female CEOs.

(Source: Susan Gunelius @ www.womenonbusiness.com.)

With all of this in mind, I can say that it is “kick-ass” that all of my professors are female for my first semester of my MBA program. At a program that is competitive, nationally-ranked, and highly revered, at least in local business circles, these women are full professors, at the top of their game. I could say that there is a sparkling, crystal-clear ceiling made of glass that I would love to shatter, but these women have done it for me. For my mother, who died feeling like her life had no purpose. It is women like these who will ensure that my sons will grow up in a world where they do not believe that their gender makes them superior or inferior, but equal to their female counterparts. It is women like these who will change those God-awful statistics I just cited. And then there is the richness of the idea that, while women are so outnumbered in top business positions, they can make careeers of educating the men that edge them out for the top spots at these companies.

I thought the definition of sexism was believing in the superiority of one gender over the other, not the equality of the two. Am I wrong? Is it sexist to want more for your life? To have the personality that translates to the desire to challenge yourself and not stagnate? To expect that your gender will not hold you back and be happy when you find evidence that it will not? Is it sexist to believe that, because I have worked my ass off to improve the lives of my loved ones, I can do even more?

If this is sexism, sign me up.

How Legos Pissed Me Off

I wrote a post bitching about this experience, so when I posted it, what I wrote disappeared and just the photos remained, so you are going to get an abridged version of Lego KidsFest.

$70 for my family to get in. Fine. But Evan didn’t get to do much because the lines were so long and the tickets were only good for 4-hour sessions. Ours were for 8:30 AM the morning after a work night for me. So I was tired. And crabby. And I could’ve stomached it a little better if it had been children in those lines. But they were all adults. Some of the rudest adults I have ever met. One almost knocked over Zachy’s stroller. There was lots of cursing, and not on my part. At a kids’ event. I actually heard someone shout, “Suck my D###!”, at one point. And for the most part, all of the kids were fine. My only gripe there was the big kids romping around the Duplo area, which was intended to be a safe place for toddlers. But again, this went back to the adults, who should’ve gotten the big kids out of there. And so I was getting angry. So we left after only two hours, lest I lose my cool and cut a bitch.

The statues were cool. Some of the activities would’ve been cool if Evan would’ve actually got to do them. So here are the photos I got.

Kinda like his room.

And for Zachy, a huge pile of Duplo bricks.

Captain Jack Sparrow, savvy?

Hello, SpongeBob!

One of the few things the kid got to do.

The coolest of the statues--a life-size Lightening McQueen

Just parked the car

The GMAT or OH MY GOD Can People Really Do This?

I am so pissed at myself right now. I can honestly say that in all of my higher education, standardized tests, credentialing exams—and there have been plenty of them—I have never done poorly on a test of any kind.

So it starts with me trying to prep for my GMAT for a couple of months. Honestly, there was just never time. There was always work. Or an appointment for one of the kids. Or John had class. Always something. But I tried half-heartedly to prepare. And by the time I was finished with all of the tasks I had to do, I was too exhausted for anything that could be considered optional. I mean, the GMAT doesn’t sign my paycheck. My grades do not depend on studying it, so it had to be moved to the back burner. And then I found out that the required score for my top-choice program is not that difficult, and I blew off studying altogether.

Holy shit.

On test day, I was nervous as hell. Butterflies and nausea. Heart-racing, palm-sweating nervousness. I tried to pump myself up with an iPod full of pump-up music. Lots of Eminem and other I’m-Kickass tunage. I chugged a venti mocha from Starbucks. Then I squared my shoulders and marched my happy ass right into that testing center as if I owned the place.First of all, let me tell you that Fort Knox could learn a thing or two from the security of a GMAT testing center. Palm-vein scans. Digital photos. Audio and visual recordings of the entire test. Pockets turned inside out and sleeves rolled up before entering. You have to put everything into a locker. EVERYTHING. All you are allowed to have on your person is your photo ID and the key to the locker they give you. No pencils or paper. They give you a dry-erase notebook for scratchpaper, and you aren’t supposed to erase it. When you run out of room, they bring you a fresh one. They provided me with earplugs, but I wasn’t even allowed to have the wrapper they came in. Please explain that one to me. How does one cheat with an earplug wrapper they get from the testing center? Because if they can figure that out, they deserve to ace the damned GMAT.  I had to unwrap them before I even entered the testing room and give he wrapper to the proctor. And when you leave the room for any reason, the entire process happens all over again.

And then I sat down to take the test.

I whizzed through 2 writing assessments. I gave responses that were well-developed and organized in thought. Grammar was perfect. No spelling errors. If anything, I can churn out a paper for anyone and anything, so I am sure I nailed those, though it will take a few weeks for the powers that be to determine my score on them. It gave me a chance for a scheduled break, which I declined. I mean, I finished the writing assessments with time to spare, so I was in the zone. Ready to go for the net round. Bring it on, Bitch!

Next came quantitative. I’m not allowed to tell you about any of the questions. I swore on my children and my future as a human being in this world that I would not. But I will tell you that this math can suck a big one. Algebra, geometry, and arithmetic organized into either problem-solving or data sufficiency questions. The math concepts were not hard at all. What was hard? The way it was organized into the problem. Each problem solved by a long chain of steps, and then the solution is not at the end of those step, but rather some portion that relates to it. And then the answer choices! Normally, when one takes a multiple-choice math exam, they solve the problem and if their answer doesn’t match the choices, the know they have done something wrong, they go back and work the problem again and find an answer that matches. Well, the GMAT bases incorrect choices on common mistakes. Say you forgot to divide the number in step two of fifteen by 2. One of the answer choices will fit that error, so you see your answer among the choices and have no idea you were wrong and are completely oblivious. But then you don’t just get the problem wrong! Your score goes down and the subsequent questions are easier because the test then figures you are a fucktard and need easier questions. Incidentally, the easier questions are worth less, so then it takes forevver to get back up to the score you need. But if you get the first few problems correct, the exam propels you into the difficult questions. And for me, these were insanely difficult. And then there is data sufficiency. I can’t even….Just Google that shit. The GMAT prides themselves on the fact that they invented this question type. If I were them, I would not be proud of the fact that I tortured poor college students seeking advanced degrees. And they are a big fricken part of the quantitative secion. Whatever. Shake it off, because after another body cavity search after a potty break, it’s time for the verbal reasoning.

Critical reasoning, sentence correction, and reading comp compose the verbal reasoning. Simple, right? Ummmm, no. Because the GMAT gives you complex sentences full of modifiers in odd places and odd verbage that one would never use in a normal conversational tone. The grammar is perfect, but the flow of the sentence is completely awkward and clumsy. So you really have to know your grammar. Conjugation is a biggie. The critical reasoning gives you a statement and you are expected to draw inferences or determine ways to weaken or strengthen the argument–whichever is asked. The reading comp is pretty standard, except the passages are verbose and dry, written on topics nobody could give two shits about.

And just like that, you’re finished. And the beauty of the GMAT is that you get your unofficial score right then. It isn’t official because the writing assessments have to be scored by some geek in an office somewhere. But the rest of the test is scored. And they don’t even give you a warning that it is coming. It just pops up on the screen, and you are in a room of other test-takers and cannot blurt out any expletives. I mean, I think I deserve some extra points for not blurting out, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME!!!!!”, which is totally what I was thinking.

Because here is what the fuck happened: I aced the verbal reasoning. I am pretty sure that I nailed the writing assessments. I bombed the fucking math. Fuck. FuckityFuckFuckFuck. However, I scored so well on the verbal that my scores are competitive anywhere–Wharton, Harvard, Keenan-Flageler—any of the big B-schools. I fucking did it. But then I start revisiting the requirements for my first-choice school. GPA 3.5. Okay. GMAT score greater than 470. Okay. (GPA x 200) + GMAT> or = to 1070. Yeah, okay. I’m good, right?

No. Halt. Big screeching brake sound here. Because they want a certain percentage of the GMAT score to come from math. Fucking math. And my score was so unbelievably lopsided.

I aced it, and yet I still have to retake it.

Shit.

I am pissed. I want to shout from the rooftops that I have never done poorly on any test ever. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever even gotten a B on an exam. I certainly have never gotten a B in a class. I can write when I have to. I test remarkably well. What the fuck????

Oh and did I mention that the exam was, like, $300? Not counting prep materials. And I have already gone to the store and purchased a program specific to GMAT math. Feel free to take up a collection for me. I have to wait 31 days to retake that fucker, too.

I would rather shoot myself in the eye than take that fucking exam again.

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.

If It Weren’t For Nuns, My Child Would Starve

IF YOU CAN’T TOLERATE THE F-BOMB, JUST FUCKING MOVE ALONG ON THIS ONE.

As if we didn’t have enough drama in this house…

It doesn’t matter what I do. I send Evan in with lunch money to be put on his account. Or I can pack his lunch. Whatever. We still get cafeteria bills. In general, it costs about $100 per month to feed Evan school lunches. Remember when we were kids and it took like 75 cents per day? And an extra quarter got you an extra helping on pizza day? Those days are gone. They went bye-bye along with the little rubber squeezy change holders that held your lunch money daily. Now my kid has a name badge thay he swipes like a debit card, and we have to add money to it.

Sometimes, in the craziness that is my household, I forget. And sometimes I don’t. Regardless, we get the bill.

Two days ago, we got hate mail from the cafeteria lady. Evan has a bill. Again. And it needs to be paid. So I went to get money out and discovered that instead of deducting my normal monthly car insurance premium, Geico took enough to cover the entire policy. Oops. When I renewed, I forget to opt for the monthly payments. My fault. But oh, shit, we have no money! So I tried to call the cafeteria lady and got no answer. Since I had no cash, and Evan has to have lunch, I sent him in with enough to cover one day’s worth. There! Evan gets lunch until my payroll hit this morning.

Yesterday, when Evan returned from school, he had more hatemail. Another copy of his bill, and in black marker and block letters at the bottom, the cafeteria lady basically stated that I am the scumofthefuckingearth and sending Evan in with enough to cover one lunch was NOT ACCEPTABLE–her emphasis, not mine–and that we owed a bill. Again, we tried to call and got no answer.

This morning, I sent Evan to school as normal. I told him to let them know that we would go to an ATM and bring money in for his cafeteria bill and to tell whoever this information. John overslept and didn’t have time to stop at an ATM on the way, so he would have to bring the money back to the school. So what happened?

My kid calls me, crying, from the office. “Mommy, they said you have to bring me a sandwich or s-s-s-s-something for lunch, that I cannot go h-h-h-h-hungry. I told them what you told me to tell them, but they still made me call you!”

To which my response was to make Evan put an adult on the damned phone. Basically, the nun that answered told me that they are concerned for Evan, that he has to eat and how did I plan on feeding him. Blah blah blah. How their only concern was Evan.

Are you serious? MY  only concern is Evan. I will ensure that he eats. We are bringing in money, for God’s sake. We are not trying to starve our kid. His bill is thirteen fucking dollars and we are acting like it is a federal crisis and poor Evan is going to go hungry and never eat again. And for the record, I would have packed Evan a lunch today and just sent the money in with Evan tomorrow, but I was out of fucking bread for a God-forsaken PB&J and Evan refused an Uncrustable in place of his fucking PB&J-with-the-fucking-crusts-cut-off. So ta-daaaaa. You have to wait for me to get one of us to an ATM. And while we on the topic of my failure to feed my kid, John would have had time to stop at an ATM before school had Evan not nibbled on his breakfast, insisting on eating one fucking Cheerio at a time, citing that too big a bite is a fucking choking hazard. What 10-year-old speaks of choking hazards, anyway? Mine, that’s who!

Maybe I should just revert to my passive aggressive bitchiness and really prove my point. I wonder if that five-star place around the corner caters school lunches!?!? Better yet, how would the nuns react to the waiter showing up with a silver platter and tucking the linen napkin neatly onto Evan’s lap for him?

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.

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.

 

Why Do They Make It So Hard?

So the latest news in the Bitchypants household is The Diet Felt ‘Round the World.

It started with a convo between the hubster and I. About how we are currently fat-assed and desire to be skinny-assed. We feel like, since we put the goal of being there to see our children get married and have babies back by about 8 years when we had Zachary, we need to live longer. And being fat-assed, we are not as likely to be able to do this. So we decided that we are going to do this, damnit. And so we schemed and planned. We figured out a weekly menu, and we made a grocery list and went to the store with said list.

And we spent $360 compared to the normal $150-$200 we normally spend. We didn’t even get any frozen pizzas! No Hot Pockets. No (gasp!) Diet Mt. Dew. Really. Why in the helll are apples and green shit so damned expensive? And then they have a shelf life of about 5 hours. No wonder, America! No wonder we are all fat and childhood obesity is at epidemic status. It isn’t the fries in Happy Meals. It’s the fucking price of the Happy Meals. A grilled chicken sandwich is one of the healthiest on the menu at McDonald’s, but John and I could eat one each for the cost it would be to feed the whole damned family. And poor people can’t afford this crap. All the poor kids are getting is Cheetos and chicken nuggets and hot dogs because it costs too damned much to feed them anything else. On a side note, maybe this is the approach to get Evan to eat more healthful foods: healthful, wholesome foods as a status symbol that the poor kids can’t afford! (yeah, I’m going straight to hell for that one!)

So anyway, we were in the living room and I was writing a paper on the laptop on the sofa while John watched some goofy stuff on tv. And we decided we were starving. We tried so hard. I tried a protein bar, and John ate some fruit or something. And then I checked my damned email. Shit. Turns out that when you order pizza, you get points. And when you get enough points, you get a free pizza. And since A) we eat entirely too much pizza–I mean we used to–, and B) I didn’t know this existed, I had enough points for 10 pizzas. Really.

.I mean, you can’t waste free pizza, can you? It’s kind of a slap in the face to the starving children in third world countries or something. So we ordered a pizza. We were kind of behaving a little because we didn’t order soda. No wings, no breadsticks, no garlic butter/ fat mixture to dip the pizza crust. Just a pie.

And it arrived before we knew what was happening. We didn’t even have the opportunity to feel remorse for reverting to our fat-assed ways. And I opened that box and smelled the pepperoni goodness of its contents.

We ate the shit out of that pizza and then hid the damned evidence as if we had murdered someone here in the living room. Oh my God, we didn’t even bother to get plates from the cupboard. We just ate it. Ate it ALL! And then John ran the box to the garbage can outside so we wouldn’t have to stare at it. I seriously felt like a crack ‘ho getting her fix. It was that bad.

Tomorrow we are getting back on the wagon. And I am going to get out that all-terrain stroller I paid a small fortune for, and I am going to repent for my sins.

But seriously. Why? Why does our culture have to make it so damned hard????

She may not be eating pizza, but she's way classier than me--she has a plate and fork.

Why I Suck at Life and Other Tales

The I'm-in-a-shitty-mood-and-have-no-pic-for-you pic. Deal with it, please.

So I have to be the worst mother in the world right now. We try and try to monitor what Evan sees/ does/ hears. We cannot control all of it and realize that in just a few short years, he will be a teenager and his peers will likely have more influence on him than either of us. So we don’t get nutty about it. Some of the stuff, he is going to hear, and I would rather it be here with us so I can correct him. But that didn’t prepare me for tonight. It was bedtime, and he was angry that we wouldn’t let him stay up all night, despite the fact that he has no school tomorrow. He was storming down to his room, dressed in his flannel pj bottoms and an old tee, and I heard him say to his father, “Suck my——”. I didn’t sensor that. He did it. He stopped short of saying what would have had me reeling. But I was still shocked/ disgusted/ angry as hell. Where in the hell did he hear such talk? And even though he didn’t finish the sentence, does it really matter what the end word was to be at this point? How could that possibly have ended in a way that would have been acceptable? I’ll answer that one for you: it couldn’t have. So now Evan is massively grounded. And the computer/ tv/ dvd’s/ cd’s/ mp3 player are all on lockdown until I either find the offending media or he rats out the punk at school who talks like that. (Disclaimer: While I sling the f-bomb on here all of the time, I don’t speak that way in front of my children, ever. So don’t even think it.)

There is a problem with my laptop. Yeah, the one I bought in March. Anyhow, the mouse buttons don’t work, and while I can use an external mouse for the time being, it is driving me crazy to do so. So I googled the tech support number for Dell. And this link popped up with the number, the Dell logo, and more. I called the number and got an Indian guy–not racist, Mr. Internet Troll/ William Wallce/ Braveheart Motherfucker–just an observation. And he seemed polite and helpful. And he wanted remote access to my PC so he could check it out. Which I granted. He asked for my home number, just in case we got disconnected, which I gave. I gave him the cell number too, since he requested it. And then the convo started to go downhill from there as he started pulling up Wikipedia pages on my desktop about malware that comes from social networking sites. And he did some scan that reports that I have like a gajillion viruses–in truth, I scanned my computer after all was said and done, and I found no threats other than the ones he installed. Anyhow, he started demanding hundreds of dollars from my credit card, blah blah blah. Really, the problem is with the damned mouse buttons, not the actual computer. And I have antivirus protection. I didn’t need anything he was slinging. So I aborted the remote access, logged off and hung up simultaneously. The bastard called back. Again and again, to both numbers. And I instantly felt like the world’s biggest idiot. I called the guy. I gave him my numbers, and I gave him access to my computer. And when it was done, my antivirrus automatically fired up and detected two threats that were cleaned off of my computer. I feel so stupid. What is wrong with these people? I mean, really? You’re going to pose as Dell Tech Support now, Cyber Assholes?

Yeah, failure of epic proportions in other areas of my life right now, too. This was the week we were to do our rounds at the big Children’s NICU in preparation for the opening of ours. I was among the 10 therapists who made the cut, and so I was to go. So here’s what happened: I was off for 4 days. I kind of ran ragged though, as I was finishing up classes, getting new furniture and working on the house. Despite wearing myself out during those days, I still couldn’t sleep at night due to my night shift schedule. So I would be up all night and try to stay up all day the next day in the hope that I could spend my days off with the boys instead of sleeping while they are awake. And again, I would be up all night that night. It sucked, and before I knew it, the days off were a thing of the past. I had two days of work, my standard night shifts. Then I had one day off. Though it wasn’t reall a whole day. I got home at 8AM on Sunday morning and had to be at Children’s at 7AM on Monday. So again, no sleep. The same for Monday night and Tuesday night. Needless to say, after sleeping about 6 hours in 10 days or so, I started to feel under the weather. I tried to fight it off. Wednesday morning, when I woke from my whopping 30 minute nap to get ready to leave, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Fever. Chills. Aches. I even puked a couple of times for good measure. And why was I breathing like one of my emphasematous patients? I had no choice but to call in. The last thing a 24-week preemie needs is to be around my sick ass. And so I slept. I slept like the dead. Until John woke me because I was so freaking hot and breathing so strangely that he was really worried. And off to the doctor I went. Yeah. I have fucking pneumonia. So now I am on steroids, antibiotics, bronchodilators. I’m starting to feel a little better, but only slightly. To put it into perspective: before, I felt like I had been hit by a train. Now it feels more like a Mack truck did me in.  I have been off since Wednesday, and now am off until Tuesday night. Shit.

So there you have it. I truly do suck. I’m hoping that tomorrow, if the third day of antibiotics and steroids continues making the same amount of improvement the first two days made, I may be able to leave the house long enough to get some lunch or something. Or maybe some very quick retail therapy before I wear out. Who knows? I’ll probably be dead by then with the way this week has gone.

PS- Zachary–sweet innocent Zachy-Poo–learned something new. He learned to stick his cute little finger straight up his cute little nose. Holy shit. And I was so grossed out that my reaction may have scarred himfor life. Is his brother’s Pig Stage rubbing off on him? No. Please, God, noooooooooo.