The Currency of Love

Today during a mandated sweep and clean operation of Julia's room a discovery was made by her brother.

These are Julia dollars and apparently they're worth ten thousand regular dollars. You can also exchange them for love, which she says is endless. I had never seen them or heard about them until today, when they were unearthed in the much needed cleaning of her room.

I've been thinking a lot of thoughts lately, about love and feelings and since it's almost valentine's day maybe I've been inspired by candy hearts and decorative fat babies with arrows.

Different kinds of love have different prices out there in life. There's the kind of love you have for those first loves, those mistake loves that are how you learn what love is and isn't. You lose part of yourself in them, and you change based on what you learn. Sometimes there are loves that could've been the RIGHT one but the timing was wrong, and the price of the regret can be unending. You'll always wonder just a little bit "what if?"

The love for your children is different. My own experience was that the moment I became pregnant I began to change, and the fierceness with which I love my children is not quantifiable by man. A friend once said "I'd not only take a bullet for my children, I'd take a slow saw to the neck." That about sums it up to me. There is nothing I wouldn't do for them. I get annoyed when I have to get out of bed and parent in the night, don't be fooled. I don't leap out of like a fairy and flit about full of joy and happiness. But when there is coughing, or retching, or other sounds that aren't sleeping my eyes pop open and I listen. I get up.

Sometimes I open my eyes in the middle of the night and listen intently to them sleeping. In the room next to mine, just a few feet from my head, three boys slumber. I can hear the one who snores, and the one who rolls around and flops in his sleep, and the one who giggles in his sleep. I listen intently for the sounds that are the three of them. The girl is further down the hall and I'll have to creep down the hall and peek for a good inspection.

Then I go pee because I'm up and gravity is a thing and I had four kids so give me a break.

The love of my children has become a currency I'm paying in another way. I started working out because I was over 300 pounds and had a heart incident. It started out as vanity, I was ashamed of how I looked. I was ashamed that arthritis in my knee was keeping me from using stairs at work. I was ashamed that I tried to do aerobics and collapsed on the floor crying after 7 minutes.

I vowed I wasn't going to shop in fat girl stores any more. I was going to be SKINNY. No one was EVER going to yell rude things at me (they still do btw) and I was going to make sure no one could EVER refer to me as fat again with any sort of basis in reality.

Then eventually, despite that voice in my head saying all the stuff above, it became about being more healthy. My heart condition is a real thing. I actually have a couple of different things happening heart-wise, one because of the other, and they have names and sound super scary and everything. They are the sort of things that aren't really that big of a deal if you are healthy and stuff. They are the sort of things that people ignore and then one day they have heart failure and everyone goes "Wow dead at 50 who knew X could kill you?"

X can kill you. X will always kill you.

But the reality hit me in 2015 when both of my parents up and died. The first thing was that they'd both died of X, those things that might've been handled so differently if dealt with earlier. The second thing though was the reality that suddenly my brothers and I were orphans. At 46, 36 and 26 we now were on our own. Yes we're all grown but it was a sobering moment because you never really think you'll be orphaned yet there we were.

My own children are some day going to be orphans.  I have two children who will never, ever be able to do for themselves. The other two, if I died today, would be very sad but would also be FINE. They're smart, they're capable. The Jesuits say give us the child for the first seven years and we'll give you the man well, she'll be 7 this year and he's 14 and frankly - while I don't WANT TO DIE now, I'm not afraid of what will happen to them. I know solidly in my heart they will be fine.

But my twins....will not.

They need me and/or their father alive as long as possible to care for them. Maybe some day to over see where they go live when we can no longer care for them. So I go to the gym. I try to watch what I eat (some days more than others let me tell you). I am running. I'm terrible at it, but I also hate being terrible at things so I keep going. So when I'm sweating and I'm hurting, I'm paying part of the currency of love. I'm paying the price of loving them so much, and I don't regret it.

I regret eating whatever I wanted for 20 years, but not for loving them this much. I lift weights on Tuesday and Thursdays and push myself to run up that hill even though my legs are about to brick. I push and push and push. I have to lose more weight, not tons, but more to ease the strain on my heart from all this extra fat. I need to build strong bones and keep them as I age so that I'm not made weak too soon by the toll of years.

I'm putting it off, this aging thing. My vanity likes the smaller sizes but my heart likes it when it gets to NOT take blood pressure medicine and when the ridiculously expensive tests don't find anything bad beyond what's known.

I could say I want to stay alive just because I'm selfish and I want all of my days. But actually I want my days so that I'm here not just for me, but for them. That's the price of loving them. It's part fear, it's part just plain love. But it's real, and it's a currency I will gladly pay until the day I die.

The Currency of Love

Today during a mandated sweep and clean operation of Julia's room a discovery was made by her brother.

These are Julia dollars and apparently they're worth ten thousand regular dollars. You can also exchange them for love, which she says is endless. I had never seen them or heard about them until today, when they were unearthed in the much needed cleaning of her room.

I've been thinking a lot of thoughts lately, about love and feelings and since it's almost valentine's day maybe I've been inspired by candy hearts and decorative fat babies with arrows.

Different kinds of love have different prices out there in life. There's the kind of love you have for those first loves, those mistake loves that are how you learn what love is and isn't. You lose part of yourself in them, and you change based on what you learn. Sometimes there are loves that could've been the RIGHT one but the timing was wrong, and the price of the regret can be unending. You'll always wonder just a little bit "what if?"

The love for your children is different. My own experience was that the moment I became pregnant I began to change, and the fierceness with which I love my children is not quantifiable by man. A friend once said "I'd not only take a bullet for my children, I'd take a slow saw to the neck." That about sums it up to me. There is nothing I wouldn't do for them. I get annoyed when I have to get out of bed and parent in the night, don't be fooled. I don't leap out of like a fairy and flit about full of joy and happiness. But when there is coughing, or retching, or other sounds that aren't sleeping my eyes pop open and I listen. I get up.

Sometimes I open my eyes in the middle of the night and listen intently to them sleeping. In the room next to mine, just a few feet from my head, three boys slumber. I can hear the one who snores, and the one who rolls around and flops in his sleep, and the one who giggles in his sleep. I listen intently for the sounds that are the three of them. The girl is further down the hall and I'll have to creep down the hall and peek for a good inspection.

Then I go pee because I'm up and gravity is a thing and I had four kids so give me a break.

The love of my children has become a currency I'm paying in another way. I started working out because I was over 300 pounds and had a heart incident. It started out as vanity, I was ashamed of how I looked. I was ashamed that arthritis in my knee was keeping me from using stairs at work. I was ashamed that I tried to do aerobics and collapsed on the floor crying after 7 minutes.

I vowed I wasn't going to shop in fat girl stores any more. I was going to be SKINNY. No one was EVER going to yell rude things at me (they still do btw) and I was going to make sure no one could EVER refer to me as fat again with any sort of basis in reality.

Then eventually, despite that voice in my head saying all the stuff above, it became about being more healthy. My heart condition is a real thing. I actually have a couple of different things happening heart-wise, one because of the other, and they have names and sound super scary and everything. They are the sort of things that aren't really that big of a deal if you are healthy and stuff. They are the sort of things that people ignore and then one day they have heart failure and everyone goes "Wow dead at 50 who knew X could kill you?"

X can kill you. X will always kill you.

But the reality hit me in 2015 when both of my parents up and died. The first thing was that they'd both died of X, those things that might've been handled so differently if dealt with earlier. The second thing though was the reality that suddenly my brothers and I were orphans. At 46, 36 and 26 we now were on our own. Yes we're all grown but it was a sobering moment because you never really think you'll be orphaned yet there we were.

My own children are some day going to be orphans.  I have two children who will never, ever be able to do for themselves. The other two, if I died today, would be very sad but would also be FINE. They're smart, they're capable. The Jesuits say give us the child for the first seven years and we'll give you the man well, she'll be 7 this year and he's 14 and frankly - while I don't WANT TO DIE now, I'm not afraid of what will happen to them. I know solidly in my heart they will be fine.

But my twins....will not.

They need me and/or their father alive as long as possible to care for them. Maybe some day to over see where they go live when we can no longer care for them. So I go to the gym. I try to watch what I eat (some days more than others let me tell you). I am running. I'm terrible at it, but I also hate being terrible at things so I keep going. So when I'm sweating and I'm hurting, I'm paying part of the currency of love. I'm paying the price of loving them so much, and I don't regret it.

I regret eating whatever I wanted for 20 years, but not for loving them this much. I lift weights on Tuesday and Thursdays and push myself to run up that hill even though my legs are about to brick. I push and push and push. I have to lose more weight, not tons, but more to ease the strain on my heart from all this extra fat. I need to build strong bones and keep them as I age so that I'm not made weak too soon by the toll of years.

I'm putting it off, this aging thing. My vanity likes the smaller sizes but my heart likes it when it gets to NOT take blood pressure medicine and when the ridiculously expensive tests don't find anything bad beyond what's known.

I could say I want to stay alive just because I'm selfish and I want all of my days. But actually I want my days so that I'm here not just for me, but for them. That's the price of loving them. It's part fear, it's part just plain love. But it's real, and it's a currency I will gladly pay until the day I die.

Terrorists and Coconut Oil

I had one of those days at work where you look like crap and people keep asking if you if you're okay. People asking you if you're okay when you are not actually sick is code for "You look like shit, what's up?" The what's up is I didn't get sleep for reasons and life and kids and stuff and so hair was in a claw and makeup was haphazard at best.

Sometimes my best is just being clean.

I went over to Sally Beauty after work and acquired a coconut oil hair mask (also works on cancer, arthritis and diabetes according to the Internet) and went home to soak in a hot tub with this tropical goop soaking in my hair. I completed my buffet of beauty products with a oatmeal and honey mask and slipped down into the hot water. 

That's when the terrorists arrived. 

"POOP," declared one of them. "HIIIIIII," declared the other.

I had determined to relax. I desperately needed silence, hot soapy water and goopy stuff smeared on my face and hair to make me a human girl again. So I told these terrorists, "No, Daddy is going to change you. GO AWAY."

No less friendly words were ever uttered to two boys than those. "VILE WOMAN!" their stomps and flailing declared. "What do you mean you won't cut your bath short to change our disgusting diapers this very minute! You're our servant! COME! MOTHER! WIPE OUR BUTTS!" They acted all of these words out in a sort of performance-art dance that included throwing themselves on my bed and making shrill noises. 

I exhaled and put them on ignore. Coconut oil doesn't cure poopie diapers. It's sad but true. I held fast to my determination to remain in the water. As the tub continued to fill I grabbed the Mr Bubble and dumped some of it in, then some more. The smell of pink filled the air (how does it smell like pink?) and I considered that I could just live in this bathtub forever, were it not for the pruning.

The pruning is a deal breaker.

I'm out of the tub now and in my jammies and diapers were in fact changed by the husband who had already said he'd do it before the little beasts came demanding it from me. They seem to think it's special MOMBONDING time and I'm oddly not keen on that. 

Maybe coconut oil DOES cure poopie diapers. 

Terrorists and Coconut Oil

I had one of those days at work where you look like crap and people keep asking if you if you're okay. People asking you if you're okay when you are not actually sick is code for "You look like shit, what's up?" The what's up is I didn't get sleep for reasons and life and kids and stuff and so hair was in a claw and makeup was haphazard at best.

Sometimes my best is just being clean.

I went over to Sally Beauty after work and acquired a coconut oil hair mask (also works on cancer, arthritis and diabetes according to the Internet) and went home to soak in a hot tub with this tropical goop soaking in my hair. I completed my buffet of beauty products with a oatmeal and honey mask and slipped down into the hot water. 

That's when the terrorists arrived. 

"POOP," declared one of them. "HIIIIIII," declared the other.

I had determined to relax. I desperately needed silence, hot soapy water and goopy stuff smeared on my face and hair to make me a human girl again. So I told these terrorists, "No, Daddy is going to change you. GO AWAY."

No less friendly words were ever uttered to two boys than those. "VILE WOMAN!" their stomps and flailing declared. "What do you mean you won't cut your bath short to change our disgusting diapers this very minute! You're our servant! COME! MOTHER! WIPE OUR BUTTS!" They acted all of these words out in a sort of performance-art dance that included throwing themselves on my bed and making shrill noises. 

I exhaled and put them on ignore. Coconut oil doesn't cure poopie diapers. It's sad but true. I held fast to my determination to remain in the water. As the tub continued to fill I grabbed the Mr Bubble and dumped some of it in, then some more. The smell of pink filled the air (how does it smell like pink?) and I considered that I could just live in this bathtub forever, were it not for the pruning.

The pruning is a deal breaker.

I'm out of the tub now and in my jammies and diapers were in fact changed by the husband who had already said he'd do it before the little beasts came demanding it from me. They seem to think it's special MOMBONDING time and I'm oddly not keen on that. 

Maybe coconut oil DOES cure poopie diapers. 

Wet Like Fish

I always think, wrongly, that giving the twins a shower instead of a bath will be easier. Time-wise, it IS easier. I can get them in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. But if you haven't ever put into a shower and TRIED to bathe a 12 year old who may or may not be having it, you'd realize quickly why this isn't always the best option.

It's my selfish side that wants them to shower. I don't want to risk the poop in the tub. I don't want to have to clean up the INCREDIBLE mess of water they make. I don't want to sit and WAIT for them to have enough time playing.

I'm a dick like that.

The trade off is the struggle. Sometimes they're super into it. They think it's fun, it's different. They don't mind getting under the shower head and they laugh a lot. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes it is a FIGHT and if you've ever tried to FORCE someone under the shower head while not getting soap in their eyes you realize that the proposition of a shower is a dodgy one at best.

This morning, however, I embarked on SHOWERQUEST as I'm going to start calling it with what I'd call a medium level of success. There was a little grumbling about washing their hair but overall clean was accomplished in an efficient manner and we are all ready for out day should we end up going out for a adventure.

This brings me to the true down side of SHOWERING 12 year old boys. They're tall. They're VERY VERY TALL now. Whether they are happy or Defcon 1 about it, the gravity of the shower of water raining down doesn't change. Reach your arm up to rinse their hair under the shower and you've just created the autobahn for water to run the length of your arm, into your armpit, soaking into your bra and shirt. It's unavoidable.

It looks like this.

I know, I'm a major artist.

So I sit here, soaked and moist in unpleasant places content in the knowledge that my kids are clean and we're ready for today. I accomplished all of this early so that they had time for their hair to dry before we went out.

It occurs to me, though, now I could really use a shower...

Wet Like Fish

I always think, wrongly, that giving the twins a shower instead of a bath will be easier. Time-wise, it IS easier. I can get them in and out of the shower in under ten minutes. But if you haven't ever put into a shower and TRIED to bathe a 12 year old who may or may not be having it, you'd realize quickly why this isn't always the best option.

It's my selfish side that wants them to shower. I don't want to risk the poop in the tub. I don't want to have to clean up the INCREDIBLE mess of water they make. I don't want to sit and WAIT for them to have enough time playing.

I'm a dick like that.

The trade off is the struggle. Sometimes they're super into it. They think it's fun, it's different. They don't mind getting under the shower head and they laugh a lot. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes it is a FIGHT and if you've ever tried to FORCE someone under the shower head while not getting soap in their eyes you realize that the proposition of a shower is a dodgy one at best.

This morning, however, I embarked on SHOWERQUEST as I'm going to start calling it with what I'd call a medium level of success. There was a little grumbling about washing their hair but overall clean was accomplished in an efficient manner and we are all ready for out day should we end up going out for a adventure.

This brings me to the true down side of SHOWERING 12 year old boys. They're tall. They're VERY VERY TALL now. Whether they are happy or Defcon 1 about it, the gravity of the shower of water raining down doesn't change. Reach your arm up to rinse their hair under the shower and you've just created the autobahn for water to run the length of your arm, into your armpit, soaking into your bra and shirt. It's unavoidable.

It looks like this.

I know, I'm a major artist.

So I sit here, soaked and moist in unpleasant places content in the knowledge that my kids are clean and we're ready for today. I accomplished all of this early so that they had time for their hair to dry before we went out.

It occurs to me, though, now I could really use a shower...

The Duplicity of Being Me

I think it's a normal state of being, wanting two divergent things at the same time. Things which are mutually exclusive can both be desireable and I suppose that the trick is to to realize that sometimes, just sometimes you have to live with that fact and find the silver lining in the bits that aren't so desirable.

A perfect example of this would be my children. I love them. Of course that's rather an implied state of being, but I can't really do without mine. I woke up this morning in the cool air conditioning and listened to the snoring, drooling mess that are my three boys sleeping soundly. I peeked at my girl,

also slack jawed and drooling and felt an intense sense of WHOLENESS knowing all my children were under our roof. My husband rolled over and went into a deeper and more comfortable slumber as I slipped downstairs to enjoy some coffee alone.

I crave my alone time. I crave my SILENT time. I can watch whatever I want - today I opted for Orange is the New Black. I already know the spoiler so I'm braced for it. I sat quietly and watched one episode before my tiny humans began their parade downstairs.

After breakfast I announced I was going upstairs to blog and have some more ME time. This is MOM CODE for "So leave me alone unless you are bleeding or trapped under something heavy." I took my coffee and made my way to the dark maze that is our computer room.

The light in that room is about 3/4 of the way across the room. I navigated through the dark with my coffee and managed to get past Godzilla and a wooden child's chair, stepped on what might've been a small plastic dinosaur and made it to the light.

That's when the duplicity of being me really started to shape up. My hearts desire is my children all around me. There actually isn't a condition on that, except that just EVERY ONCE in a while I want them all around me ON MY TERMS. So just be there and look cute and be quiet? Mmmmkay?

It doesn't work like that. My joy at them being near faded just a little as Miles came upstairs and proceeded to start to throw a tantrum at his PC. Why? Not sure. But he starts stomping and screaming and then he tries to shove his chin into my face (chinning, one of an autism parents least favorite thing) and has a screaming tantrum about X. X is unknown. Solve for X.

He was sent to have some quiet time and then Julia came in and decided to ONLY play games that she needs me for. I'm having ME time. Remember? I just want a little more. I want to clear my headspace...I need a mental recharge. I need ME TIME recreation.

Except that now my coffee is cold and then GONE because they're coffee thieves.

So I half-halfheartedly play my stupid game, and then I think maybe I'll go watch a movie with the oldest boy,  who then comes up to tell me he wants to watch Maze Runner which is too scary for the little ones so can I keep them upstairs.

Sure.

I've got my wish. My children are all home. I'm annoyed. My children won't leave me alone.

The truth is I'd take my most annoyed day over the alternative because that's unthinkable.

So I reset my brain and start thinking about something special for lunch. Maybe we'll go to the park or play outside or I don't know what. I might just make waffles for lunch. Who knows?

They're all home. I couldn't be happier.


(But I'd still like to play video games alone sometimes. Just sayin'.)




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The Duplicity of Being Me

I think it's a normal state of being, wanting two divergent things at the same time. Things which are mutually exclusive can both be desireable and I suppose that the trick is to to realize that sometimes, just sometimes you have to live with that fact and find the silver lining in the bits that aren't so desirable.

A perfect example of this would be my children. I love them. Of course that's rather an implied state of being, but I can't really do without mine. I woke up this morning in the cool air conditioning and listened to the snoring, drooling mess that are my three boys sleeping soundly. I peeked at my girl,

also slack jawed and drooling and felt an intense sense of WHOLENESS knowing all my children were under our roof. My husband rolled over and went into a deeper and more comfortable slumber as I slipped downstairs to enjoy some coffee alone.

I crave my alone time. I crave my SILENT time. I can watch whatever I want - today I opted for Orange is the New Black. I already know the spoiler so I'm braced for it. I sat quietly and watched one episode before my tiny humans began their parade downstairs.

After breakfast I announced I was going upstairs to blog and have some more ME time. This is MOM CODE for "So leave me alone unless you are bleeding or trapped under something heavy." I took my coffee and made my way to the dark maze that is our computer room.

The light in that room is about 3/4 of the way across the room. I navigated through the dark with my coffee and managed to get past Godzilla and a wooden child's chair, stepped on what might've been a small plastic dinosaur and made it to the light.

That's when the duplicity of being me really started to shape up. My hearts desire is my children all around me. There actually isn't a condition on that, except that just EVERY ONCE in a while I want them all around me ON MY TERMS. So just be there and look cute and be quiet? Mmmmkay?

It doesn't work like that. My joy at them being near faded just a little as Miles came upstairs and proceeded to start to throw a tantrum at his PC. Why? Not sure. But he starts stomping and screaming and then he tries to shove his chin into my face (chinning, one of an autism parents least favorite thing) and has a screaming tantrum about X. X is unknown. Solve for X.

He was sent to have some quiet time and then Julia came in and decided to ONLY play games that she needs me for. I'm having ME time. Remember? I just want a little more. I want to clear my headspace...I need a mental recharge. I need ME TIME recreation.

Except that now my coffee is cold and then GONE because they're coffee thieves.

So I half-halfheartedly play my stupid game, and then I think maybe I'll go watch a movie with the oldest boy,  who then comes up to tell me he wants to watch Maze Runner which is too scary for the little ones so can I keep them upstairs.

Sure.

I've got my wish. My children are all home. I'm annoyed. My children won't leave me alone.

The truth is I'd take my most annoyed day over the alternative because that's unthinkable.

So I reset my brain and start thinking about something special for lunch. Maybe we'll go to the park or play outside or I don't know what. I might just make waffles for lunch. Who knows?

They're all home. I couldn't be happier.


(But I'd still like to play video games alone sometimes. Just sayin'.)




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All Together Now...

Miles has a new song. I couldn't figure out how he'd learned it for a long time, until I fired up our DVR version of Charlie Brown Christmas and ran into the Kohls/Nike hybrid commercial featuring racing Santas to the Beatles ALL TOGETHER NOW.

He sings it when he's happy, he sings it when he's agitated. It's become something I can redirect him with sometimes when he's winding up...I start softly "1..2..3..4..can I have a little more...5..6...." and he will hop in, especially at the I LOVE YOU parts.

Sometimes we all sing along with him. It's a fitting anthem to us. We're all together, in all things. That's how we roll. Maybe it makes us clannish or weird, but mostly we'd rather be with the six of us than with anyone else. Even when we want to escape the six of us we miss us when we're not together.

We were having our family snuggles, six on the queen bed is getting a bit tight lemme tell you, and I was just thinking how that's just our song. All together now. It's better than the wedding vows, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer etc. No. That's not it.

We're all together now...all together now....I LOVE YOU.

I've been having some amazing days with these little ones and it makes me so glad I have them in my life. Today the big brother is building the little sister a fort in the living room.

They're all going to be down there shortly playing in that fort - it's just a matter of time.

A B C D can I bring my friend to tea? E F G H I J ...I LOVE YOU...

Julia suggests we have a tea party with coffee.

Maybe we will.

All Together Now...

Miles has a new song. I couldn't figure out how he'd learned it for a long time, until I fired up our DVR version of Charlie Brown Christmas and ran into the Kohls/Nike hybrid commercial featuring racing Santas to the Beatles ALL TOGETHER NOW.

He sings it when he's happy, he sings it when he's agitated. It's become something I can redirect him with sometimes when he's winding up...I start softly "1..2..3..4..can I have a little more...5..6...." and he will hop in, especially at the I LOVE YOU parts.

Sometimes we all sing along with him. It's a fitting anthem to us. We're all together, in all things. That's how we roll. Maybe it makes us clannish or weird, but mostly we'd rather be with the six of us than with anyone else. Even when we want to escape the six of us we miss us when we're not together.

We were having our family snuggles, six on the queen bed is getting a bit tight lemme tell you, and I was just thinking how that's just our song. All together now. It's better than the wedding vows, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer etc. No. That's not it.

We're all together now...all together now....I LOVE YOU.

I've been having some amazing days with these little ones and it makes me so glad I have them in my life. Today the big brother is building the little sister a fort in the living room.

They're all going to be down there shortly playing in that fort - it's just a matter of time.

A B C D can I bring my friend to tea? E F G H I J ...I LOVE YOU...

Julia suggests we have a tea party with coffee.

Maybe we will.

Autism Parenting Isn't On Your Schedule

The first problem with an day as an autism parent is thinking you've got it under control. I woke up with a BRILLIANT amount of undisturbed sleep today.

My Fitbit told me that I didn't even have restless time in the night, I slept like the dead all night. It was the first night I didn't have 8+ restless times, or even awake times in the mix. That little line showing "restless" is really me waking up as Charlie touched my arm gently a couple of times.

All signs at this point in the day pointed to GOOD.

I served breakfast and Miles didn't eat. That's USUALLY a sign that something is up, he didn't even come DOWN to eat. He didn't get upset about being CALLED to eat (usually if it's gonna be a bad day he'll meltdown over being told to come eat. Why? Autism.) However, no resonse, no protest, no anything seemed...off. But I thought "Maybe just MAYBE he's just chill." We recently moved the todder bed from Julia's room and are using it as a kids daybed/sofa in the computer room and he LOVES that, he's behind me in it at this very moment reading.

After breakfast I decided it was time to get back to the business of getting healthy. I set my fitbit to track my walk/run/stumble/struggle and told Louis if Miles came down to pour him some Cheerios at least.

I set out for my walk. After a mile and a half of huffing and puffing fat girl hell I returned home and collapsed in my chair.  I slammed one water then two and then realized my blood sugar felt a bit off, so I should eat something. My hubby was good enough to pick me up some egg bagels (one of my faves of the grocery store variety) so I popped those in the toaster and marveled at the amazing red horror my face was. "That can't be healthy..." I think as Miles comes into the kitchen. He wants food, so I pause and pour him a bowl of cereal, make some toast, sausage and applesauce for him and he sits happily in the dining room feasting on his bachelor breakfast, no one around to bother him seems to make him happy sometimes.

I resume making myself something, should I have an apple? Am I that hungry? When he says "I need help" and turns around. The entire back of his pants is soaking wets and...slightly brown.

Holy....fill in the blank.

We dash upstairs and to my delight it was just a ridiculous amoutn of pee - there wasn't any poop in his diaper at all. TMI? Don't care. This is my LIFE. I changed Charlie too for good measure, get Miles new shorts, go downstairs and disenfect that chair just in case and then wash my hands forever.

THEN, resume my food. Cream cheese, oh good it's not light because I WANT ALL THE FAT RIGHT NOW I AM SO HUNGRY. Apple? Maybe apple. Apple could be really good. I'm conscious of HOW MUCH cream cheese I put on, pour more water, grab my Margaret Atwood book from the library and collapse in my chair. The oldst boy is killing things in Mordor, the girl is going upstairs to "make her bed" or something and I am at peace.

At that moment, Miles comes flying DOWN the stairs...and said "HELP PANTS!"

And shows me the poop running down his leg.

I KNEW THOSE PANTS WERE BROWN FOR A REASON OMG I JUST KNEW IT.

Imagine if you will a truck driver who has eaten nothing but truck stop food (which actually can be pretty good if you've ever been to one) for days and was also constipated for days but suddenly is now not constipated. Imagine that trucker depositing natures call into my 12 year old's diaper, if you will.

And now imagine you're me.

There is cleaning there is so much cleaning and then I realize there is nothing for it but to simply bathe him. To the shower we go, scrubbing with a soap called Happy that doesn't smell as good as it sounds - but smells WAY BETTER than poop. Scrubbing the hair, scrubbing all of him while he giggles because showers are funny.

He thinks he's had a hilarious adventure, eating alone, getting a shower, really he's having this grand day. Plus I'm pretty sure HE FEELS BETTER than whatever he felt like 20 minutes ago.

I get him dressed and sorted, change Charlie AGAIN and walk slowly and stiffly down the stairs. My food, water and book are still waiting. Both the food and water are cold, which is bad and good.
I eat and read and consider my own shower, which by now I've had dear reader. You'd smell me from your seat had I not.

That's autism parenting. Plan, plan, plan REACT REACT REACT REACT. Sometimes not in that order.

He's behind me reading, clean and shiny and happy. It's a pretty good day after all.

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Autism Parenting Isn't On Your Schedule

The first problem with an day as an autism parent is thinking you've got it under control. I woke up with a BRILLIANT amount of undisturbed sleep today.

My Fitbit told me that I didn't even have restless time in the night, I slept like the dead all night. It was the first night I didn't have 8+ restless times, or even awake times in the mix. That little line showing "restless" is really me waking up as Charlie touched my arm gently a couple of times.

All signs at this point in the day pointed to GOOD.

I served breakfast and Miles didn't eat. That's USUALLY a sign that something is up, he didn't even come DOWN to eat. He didn't get upset about being CALLED to eat (usually if it's gonna be a bad day he'll meltdown over being told to come eat. Why? Autism.) However, no resonse, no protest, no anything seemed...off. But I thought "Maybe just MAYBE he's just chill." We recently moved the todder bed from Julia's room and are using it as a kids daybed/sofa in the computer room and he LOVES that, he's behind me in it at this very moment reading.

After breakfast I decided it was time to get back to the business of getting healthy. I set my fitbit to track my walk/run/stumble/struggle and told Louis if Miles came down to pour him some Cheerios at least.

I set out for my walk. After a mile and a half of huffing and puffing fat girl hell I returned home and collapsed in my chair.  I slammed one water then two and then realized my blood sugar felt a bit off, so I should eat something. My hubby was good enough to pick me up some egg bagels (one of my faves of the grocery store variety) so I popped those in the toaster and marveled at the amazing red horror my face was. "That can't be healthy..." I think as Miles comes into the kitchen. He wants food, so I pause and pour him a bowl of cereal, make some toast, sausage and applesauce for him and he sits happily in the dining room feasting on his bachelor breakfast, no one around to bother him seems to make him happy sometimes.

I resume making myself something, should I have an apple? Am I that hungry? When he says "I need help" and turns around. The entire back of his pants is soaking wets and...slightly brown.

Holy....fill in the blank.

We dash upstairs and to my delight it was just a ridiculous amoutn of pee - there wasn't any poop in his diaper at all. TMI? Don't care. This is my LIFE. I changed Charlie too for good measure, get Miles new shorts, go downstairs and disenfect that chair just in case and then wash my hands forever.

THEN, resume my food. Cream cheese, oh good it's not light because I WANT ALL THE FAT RIGHT NOW I AM SO HUNGRY. Apple? Maybe apple. Apple could be really good. I'm conscious of HOW MUCH cream cheese I put on, pour more water, grab my Margaret Atwood book from the library and collapse in my chair. The oldst boy is killing things in Mordor, the girl is going upstairs to "make her bed" or something and I am at peace.

At that moment, Miles comes flying DOWN the stairs...and said "HELP PANTS!"

And shows me the poop running down his leg.

I KNEW THOSE PANTS WERE BROWN FOR A REASON OMG I JUST KNEW IT.

Imagine if you will a truck driver who has eaten nothing but truck stop food (which actually can be pretty good if you've ever been to one) for days and was also constipated for days but suddenly is now not constipated. Imagine that trucker depositing natures call into my 12 year old's diaper, if you will.

And now imagine you're me.

There is cleaning there is so much cleaning and then I realize there is nothing for it but to simply bathe him. To the shower we go, scrubbing with a soap called Happy that doesn't smell as good as it sounds - but smells WAY BETTER than poop. Scrubbing the hair, scrubbing all of him while he giggles because showers are funny.

He thinks he's had a hilarious adventure, eating alone, getting a shower, really he's having this grand day. Plus I'm pretty sure HE FEELS BETTER than whatever he felt like 20 minutes ago.

I get him dressed and sorted, change Charlie AGAIN and walk slowly and stiffly down the stairs. My food, water and book are still waiting. Both the food and water are cold, which is bad and good.
I eat and read and consider my own shower, which by now I've had dear reader. You'd smell me from your seat had I not.

That's autism parenting. Plan, plan, plan REACT REACT REACT REACT. Sometimes not in that order.

He's behind me reading, clean and shiny and happy. It's a pretty good day after all.

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A Junkie With A Paint Brush

Our annual passes to the High Museum of Art are ending, so for one of our last trips we took the kids to see the Basquiat exhibit. I was pretty excited, not having seen a lot of his work in person.

I've always taken my kids to art musuems. Since they were in strollers or in baby Bjorn strapped to my chest, we've strolled through galleries, from Dali to DaVinci, we have always taken our kids. I think Frank Zappa had it right, although he was referring to age suggestions on toys, that you shouldn't ever assume what a kid can embrace and learn from. They aren't always super into it, that's for sure.

But here is what is great when you've made viewing and talking about art part of your life. When you've done that, made it normal and not something "FANCY" or "BEYOND" what they should ken, you get to have conversations like the one I had late that evening with Louis.

"So I was kind of disappointed in the Basquiat exhibit," he starts out hesitantly.

I was making my bed, and paused for him to come join me on the other side. "How come?" I asked, wondering where this was going.

"It wasn't what I expected," he continued. "It was sort of, junk. I didn't really like it. I don't get how that's art."

"Well, art can be lots of things," I fluff the comforter and invite him to sit down. "After all, the point of a lot of modern art is to break down the idea of what art HAS to be. Sometimes when we're looking at art, what we're looking at is someone challenging us to accept their work, and by doing that to redefine what's beautiful. If nothing else, it makes us think - and talk."

He shrugged. "I don't see what's so interesting in a junkie with a paint brush. I really thought it would be cool, I didn't like it at all."

"It's not like the Dutch masters where you can't believe it's not a photograph," I continued. "Or other schools of art where different kinds of form and discipline were what mattered. His work is just his own, unique to him and his vision. That's kind of what makes it interested.

He got up to get his pajamas, "I liked some other stuff we saw better."

The best part of the entire conversation was that my kid has some very real opinions on art. He's not mature enough to see the bigger vision of the art world but that's ok. He's 13 and he's having thoughts that I love, because it lets us engage on topics that will carry him through the rest of his life.

I'll always remember how much my own mother loved the Dutch masters, and how sad I was that she never got to see them in person as I did. Someday when I'm gone, art will still be on this Earth and he'll be able to share it with the people he loves, and remember what his mother loved. Maybe he'll get to see pieces I never did - and think of me.

I love that he didn't like Basquiat. But he SAW Basquiat. That's what matters to me.

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A Junkie With A Paint Brush

Our annual passes to the High Museum of Art are ending, so for one of our last trips we took the kids to see the Basquiat exhibit. I was pretty excited, not having seen a lot of his work in person.

I've always taken my kids to art musuems. Since they were in strollers or in baby Bjorn strapped to my chest, we've strolled through galleries, from Dali to DaVinci, we have always taken our kids. I think Frank Zappa had it right, although he was referring to age suggestions on toys, that you shouldn't ever assume what a kid can embrace and learn from. They aren't always super into it, that's for sure.

But here is what is great when you've made viewing and talking about art part of your life. When you've done that, made it normal and not something "FANCY" or "BEYOND" what they should ken, you get to have conversations like the one I had late that evening with Louis.

"So I was kind of disappointed in the Basquiat exhibit," he starts out hesitantly.

I was making my bed, and paused for him to come join me on the other side. "How come?" I asked, wondering where this was going.

"It wasn't what I expected," he continued. "It was sort of, junk. I didn't really like it. I don't get how that's art."

"Well, art can be lots of things," I fluff the comforter and invite him to sit down. "After all, the point of a lot of modern art is to break down the idea of what art HAS to be. Sometimes when we're looking at art, what we're looking at is someone challenging us to accept their work, and by doing that to redefine what's beautiful. If nothing else, it makes us think - and talk."

He shrugged. "I don't see what's so interesting in a junkie with a paint brush. I really thought it would be cool, I didn't like it at all."

"It's not like the Dutch masters where you can't believe it's not a photograph," I continued. "Or other schools of art where different kinds of form and discipline were what mattered. His work is just his own, unique to him and his vision. That's kind of what makes it interested.

He got up to get his pajamas, "I liked some other stuff we saw better."

The best part of the entire conversation was that my kid has some very real opinions on art. He's not mature enough to see the bigger vision of the art world but that's ok. He's 13 and he's having thoughts that I love, because it lets us engage on topics that will carry him through the rest of his life.

I'll always remember how much my own mother loved the Dutch masters, and how sad I was that she never got to see them in person as I did. Someday when I'm gone, art will still be on this Earth and he'll be able to share it with the people he loves, and remember what his mother loved. Maybe he'll get to see pieces I never did - and think of me.

I love that he didn't like Basquiat. But he SAW Basquiat. That's what matters to me.

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Hope Is The Thing

We went last night to the Relay for Life event at the Fairgrounds. It had been a few years since we went to this, but we had such a good time last time and we had nothing going on so we decided why not go check out the fun.

Our Relay for Life event is really amazing. It's the only one I've ever been to, and it's like this incredible festival on steroids. People are singing, and dancing, and celebrating. There are games and gifts and just this undefinable JOY in the air. You see hugs, you see tears, you see people walking around in silly costumes and just exuding their happiness and giving it out to others freely.

What I learned last night is this, while the mood at these events is probably all about the same, I'm not wrong in feeling WONDER at the size and scope of ours. Why? Because...

This thing is the largest in the world. That rather explains A LOT.

What makes it really wonderful is how all of the booths have activities, little games and things for the kids who are too small to understand the "bigger" meaning of the event, but these things still create a positive association for the event that I think is important.

We didn't scratch the surface on the activities that were available to do, for sure. But we are many and it's hard to wrangle us through stuff so I think we did ok.

There were clowns to meet and even Chopper was there, our old friend from the Braves games.

We had some BBQ and hot dogs under a tent with Chinese lanterns and enjoyed the warm southern evening as night fell. It was al fresco tent dining at it's finest.

Yes Charlie is in love with that Coke.

It's such a juxtaposition, to be surrounded by all the luminaries in memory of those who died from the various kinds of cancer but to feel so much happiness. Maybe that's really the point of Relay for Life. It's not just here to remind us to celebrate the lives of those who didn't make it or who are still struggling with cancer, it's also to remind us to celebrate ALL of our lives. Celebrate even on the days that seem crappy. Celebrate when things aren't going the way you want.

I heard someone say, recently, upon hearing that I had four children "Oh - you are so rich." Julia echoed it as we ate our dinner, "We're rich." She was saying this because we had both coke AND cookies with our dinner I think. 

The truth is, we are. We're SO rich. We're filthy rich. We will never have all the money or all the things or the best house or the best car.  But I don't really care about any of that. What I have is the most important stuff in the whole world. 

I woke up today feeling tired and achy and I'd like a nap, on the beach preferably. But since that isn't happening I should also note that I woke up happy, and in love with my family. Life is really good. I feel like I soaked up so much good energy at Relay For Life that I'm good for a long time.

Hope floats. Always.

Hope Is The Thing

We went last night to the Relay for Life event at the Fairgrounds. It had been a few years since we went to this, but we had such a good time last time and we had nothing going on so we decided why not go check out the fun.

Our Relay for Life event is really amazing. It's the only one I've ever been to, and it's like this incredible festival on steroids. People are singing, and dancing, and celebrating. There are games and gifts and just this undefinable JOY in the air. You see hugs, you see tears, you see people walking around in silly costumes and just exuding their happiness and giving it out to others freely.

What I learned last night is this, while the mood at these events is probably all about the same, I'm not wrong in feeling WONDER at the size and scope of ours. Why? Because...

This thing is the largest in the world. That rather explains A LOT.

What makes it really wonderful is how all of the booths have activities, little games and things for the kids who are too small to understand the "bigger" meaning of the event, but these things still create a positive association for the event that I think is important.

We didn't scratch the surface on the activities that were available to do, for sure. But we are many and it's hard to wrangle us through stuff so I think we did ok.

There were clowns to meet and even Chopper was there, our old friend from the Braves games.

We had some BBQ and hot dogs under a tent with Chinese lanterns and enjoyed the warm southern evening as night fell. It was al fresco tent dining at it's finest.

Yes Charlie is in love with that Coke.

It's such a juxtaposition, to be surrounded by all the luminaries in memory of those who died from the various kinds of cancer but to feel so much happiness. Maybe that's really the point of Relay for Life. It's not just here to remind us to celebrate the lives of those who didn't make it or who are still struggling with cancer, it's also to remind us to celebrate ALL of our lives. Celebrate even on the days that seem crappy. Celebrate when things aren't going the way you want.

I heard someone say, recently, upon hearing that I had four children "Oh - you are so rich." Julia echoed it as we ate our dinner, "We're rich." She was saying this because we had both coke AND cookies with our dinner I think. 

The truth is, we are. We're SO rich. We're filthy rich. We will never have all the money or all the things or the best house or the best car.  But I don't really care about any of that. What I have is the most important stuff in the whole world. 

I woke up today feeling tired and achy and I'd like a nap, on the beach preferably. But since that isn't happening I should also note that I woke up happy, and in love with my family. Life is really good. I feel like I soaked up so much good energy at Relay For Life that I'm good for a long time.

Hope floats. Always.

Festival Season Kicks Off

So over a month ago I noticed someone showing "interest" on Facebook in an event called Bear on the Square which takes place up toward the mountains in Dahlonega. I thought it looked kind of cute so I made note of it too, hoping maybe we could go. We love festivals, always have even in the BEFORE KIDS TIME and I'm hoping we really get back to them this year more often.

It's a challenge to take two severely autistic kids out to festivals. First of all there's the diapers - changing diapers in a port-a-potty is almost always impossible as you have to take off their shoes and I think we all know that standing barefoot or in socked feet in a port-a-potty is one of the circles of hell. Plus I think you'll get smallpox doing that, or something like smallpox. We're vaccinated but who wants to risk it?

I didn't know there WAS a bear to meet but we ran right into him when we got there. The kids all thought that was great.

The festival was a pretty damn good one. There were TONS of stringed instruments for sales, and folk crafts - (REAL crafts not stuff done with glue guns made at Michaels). Officially it was an Appalachian Art and Music Festival and it didn't disappoint at all. I kind of wanted to pick up this stringed instrument called a panjo, I am totally going to next time I see one. I have no idea why but it was pretty cool. Next time!

I usually pick up a piece of jewelry at these kind of festivals, and Julia was excited to get to pick up a ring as a souvenir. It's fun to have pieces that not everyone else has. The ring she picked up has the quality of being "purple" in my opinion. She was pretty excited however, so WIN for the almost 6 year old.

Now see this? This is $32 worth of root beer floats.

Festival food is always a crap shoot. Sometimes it's over priced, sometimes it's really reasonable. Sometimes it's amazing and OH WOW SO GOOD and sometimes it's like holy hell what did we just buy and why? Unfortunately this day we chose all the wrong food. ALL the wrong food. These root beer floats were possibly the WORST root beer I have EVER had, flat and warm with cheap ice cream in it. UGH not good. Oh yay we had free refills. We left the mugs behind because we didn't want reminders of this travesty of wasted money in our home.

That was possibly the only real low point however. There was the MOST immaculate port-a-potty in Christendom and I was able to change both twins without fear of plague and flesh eating bacteria being present. So that particular piece of Special Needs Parenting was actually pretty easy yesterday.

While my kids might identify their new balloon animal friends as the best part of their day, I have to say I think it was the music.

The entire place was like the O' Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack on fantastic repeat. If you like that sort of thing (which I do) it was pretty amazing. Every few feet there was another small group of either bluegrass or old timey musicians, playing and singing and it was just lovely. You didn't have to go find a spot at a main stage to hear the music, it was a few feet away while you bought soaps, rings, jellies, etc.

If you don't know the difference between Old Timey music and Bluegress the festival's website has some helpful information for you.

Ok it's funny, you should read it.

Home Depot had a booth set up for kids to do crafts, so our three little guys all made little wagons. It was evident Miles has been to Home Depot frequently with his class, as he grabbed the hammer immediately and went to work. He knew exactly what to do. Charlie wasn't quite as interested and needed a little more help but I think they all liked this part and now various princesses and Tigger have "a sick new ride" according to my oldest.

I'm going to have to have a better DIAPER plan for the summer festivals. Sometimes we just change in the van (not ideal for poop lemme tell you) so I'm going to be thinking on that a lot. I'm not going to let their diapers hold us back from all of the experiences out there for us. They loved the music, and they got new toys to play with and it was an all around great day.

Miles managed not to flip out over dogs, and we left with lots of handcrafted goodies to enjoy. Those two things alone were completely worth the day.

It was a perfect family day out. We need more of these.

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