Amber Is The Color of Your Energy

It has been a pretty good autism day which is the first sign that something super stupid is about to happen. I had played Hungry Hungry Hippos, painted the toenails of the girl and listened to her read two books. Lunch and breakfast were without incident. I did legs and core, and some more core later. Things were quiet. All was well.

That's a harbinger of doom.

I was watching Forrest Gump, letting my own to toenails dry and texting with Laura when it occurred to me it had been some time since I saw the twins.That's when the smell hit me.

Poop.

Twelve year olds with poop that's been waiting for relief for any amount of time isn't a fun time for anyone. The intimate details of what that sort of clean up involves I'll save for my closest friends (Sorry for the mental image Laura) but let's say it's unpleasant. Sometimes there isn't anything for it but to bathe them, just like when they were babies.

I'm endlessly amused by the names of the man soap available to me in the bathroom. I have to admit, it makes the poop-removal scrub down entertaining as hell sometimes. After I wash Charlie with dandruff shampoo I finish up with with a scrub singing along to the name of the soap "Desssssssperaaaado.....why don't you COME TO YOUR SENSES?"

I entertain the hell out of myself.  It helps me forget that I'm washing my 12 year old because he still poops his pants. He laughs because I'm singing and getting wet. They laugh and dance around in the shower because it's fun.

Next child of course needs the same attention but this time it's time for the smell of "Goddamn dirty hippies" as my Dad would say. AMBER. A patchouli something or other smell goes all over Miles to remove the horrible poop and pee that's been there too long smell.

I'm a bad parent. I can't believe I left them so long without changing them. "OHHHH AMBER IS THE COLOR OF YOUR ENERGY!!!" I sing. (That's the only line I know from that song because I'm not a goddamn dirty hippie.)

Oh fuck off that's a joke.

Now they're clean and one smells like a guy who's been out riding fences and the other like that dirty hippie thing but I've got to say, despite all the poop scrubbing and soapy singing it's still been a pretty good day. Now take that into account and look at my face.

Seriously, this is a good day.

You want no part of a bad day.

Amber Is The Color of Your Energy

It has been a pretty good autism day which is the first sign that something super stupid is about to happen. I had played Hungry Hungry Hippos, painted the toenails of the girl and listened to her read two books. Lunch and breakfast were without incident. I did legs and core, and some more core later. Things were quiet. All was well.

That's a harbinger of doom.

I was watching Forrest Gump, letting my own to toenails dry and texting with Laura when it occurred to me it had been some time since I saw the twins.That's when the smell hit me.

Poop.

Twelve year olds with poop that's been waiting for relief for any amount of time isn't a fun time for anyone. The intimate details of what that sort of clean up involves I'll save for my closest friends (Sorry for the mental image Laura) but let's say it's unpleasant. Sometimes there isn't anything for it but to bathe them, just like when they were babies.

I'm endlessly amused by the names of the man soap available to me in the bathroom. I have to admit, it makes the poop-removal scrub down entertaining as hell sometimes. After I wash Charlie with dandruff shampoo I finish up with with a scrub singing along to the name of the soap "Desssssssperaaaado.....why don't you COME TO YOUR SENSES?"

I entertain the hell out of myself.  It helps me forget that I'm washing my 12 year old because he still poops his pants. He laughs because I'm singing and getting wet. They laugh and dance around in the shower because it's fun.

Next child of course needs the same attention but this time it's time for the smell of "Goddamn dirty hippies" as my Dad would say. AMBER. A patchouli something or other smell goes all over Miles to remove the horrible poop and pee that's been there too long smell.

I'm a bad parent. I can't believe I left them so long without changing them. "OHHHH AMBER IS THE COLOR OF YOUR ENERGY!!!" I sing. (That's the only line I know from that song because I'm not a goddamn dirty hippie.)

Oh fuck off that's a joke.

Now they're clean and one smells like a guy who's been out riding fences and the other like that dirty hippie thing but I've got to say, despite all the poop scrubbing and soapy singing it's still been a pretty good day. Now take that into account and look at my face.

Seriously, this is a good day.

You want no part of a bad day.

The Fairytale of Solo Pooping and Other Autism Parenting Nonsense

There was a time when I would often find myself sitting upon the toilet with a small boy perched upon my lap. I would be there to answer one of nature's calls, and the child would find me sitting (having sought me out as I'm not allowed to stray) and would climb upon my lap.

This presents a number of issues. First of all no part of my toilet training ever included "How to void one's bladder or intestines while holding a child." In fact, I can admit I never was able to accomplish is regardless of how desperately I might have needed to do before that moment. They were confusing and frustrating times. How do you explain to a child that doesn't understand that THIS seat is different from every other seat? When I sit on THIS seat you can't sit on my lap, but on every other seat we're good?

How?

I'm not sure how we actually ever graduated from that phase except there was probably some screaming and some locked doors involved. Locked doors might seem like the obvious answer but the twins have an intense need to be ABLE to get to me. Their father gets away with pooping on his own. I, however, can at LEAST count on someone chanting/counting/stemming/singing outside my bathroom door at the minimum. They seem to need me to acknowledge them, to confirm a small piece of object permanence maybe they're missing. "I'll be out in a minute," I'll call. "Everything is OK Mommy will be right out."

Sometimes they simply pop open to door and look at me. They don't stay, they take a look and leave - swinging the door wide open so it doesn't accidentally shut again. The oldest child has come upon me more than once, moaning in horror "MOM WHY IS THE DOOR OPEN" and shutting it. I'm not sure which of us he's more embarrassed for.

Dude sometimes I gotta poop, what do you want from me kid? I can't ALWAYS GET UP AND SHUT THE DAMN DOOR AGAIN.

If we return to the subject of locks, you might just say "Damn woman, just lock that door." Well I do, on occasion. There are whole days that pass when I can safely lock the bathroom door, do what nature requires and exit feeling lighter with hands scented delightfully from some fancy soap. Those are damn good days, I gotta admit. However there are many more days where me locking the door equals a 12 year old boy in full on autism panic yelling "OPEN DOOR OPEN DOOR" when he realizes I am behind a door he can't get through.

He can't be separated from me. He might not need to be with me 24/7 any longer but he requires it as an option.

Some days this one thing makes me feel like some bizarre alien. All parents experience this with their small children. We tut-tut and giggle over the joy we get when solo showers happen, or being just alone in the bathroom with no spectators. But the prospect of that being your LIFE is sobering. It stops being cute.

It is a form of torture played out on a minuscule scale. A small human dignity shall be disallowed. You won't be harmed by it. It's not worth truly complaining about. In fact compared to all the terrible things that happen in the world you're just fine and seriously hush, you haven't got any problems. Yet, there is it, this thing that other people can expect from their 12 year olds that you as an autism parent can't.

It's unfair.

Life isn't fair, my mom used to say. Get over it.

She was right. It's probably the most important thing she ever taught me. It's pretty much all that gets me through some days.

The Fairytale of Solo Pooping and Other Autism Parenting Nonsense

There was a time when I would often find myself sitting upon the toilet with a small boy perched upon my lap. I would be there to answer one of nature's calls, and the child would find me sitting (having sought me out as I'm not allowed to stray) and would climb upon my lap.

This presents a number of issues. First of all no part of my toilet training ever included "How to void one's bladder or intestines while holding a child." In fact, I can admit I never was able to accomplish is regardless of how desperately I might have needed to do before that moment. They were confusing and frustrating times. How do you explain to a child that doesn't understand that THIS seat is different from every other seat? When I sit on THIS seat you can't sit on my lap, but on every other seat we're good?

How?

I'm not sure how we actually ever graduated from that phase except there was probably some screaming and some locked doors involved. Locked doors might seem like the obvious answer but the twins have an intense need to be ABLE to get to me. Their father gets away with pooping on his own. I, however, can at LEAST count on someone chanting/counting/stemming/singing outside my bathroom door at the minimum. They seem to need me to acknowledge them, to confirm a small piece of object permanence maybe they're missing. "I'll be out in a minute," I'll call. "Everything is OK Mommy will be right out."

Sometimes they simply pop open to door and look at me. They don't stay, they take a look and leave - swinging the door wide open so it doesn't accidentally shut again. The oldest child has come upon me more than once, moaning in horror "MOM WHY IS THE DOOR OPEN" and shutting it. I'm not sure which of us he's more embarrassed for.

Dude sometimes I gotta poop, what do you want from me kid? I can't ALWAYS GET UP AND SHUT THE DAMN DOOR AGAIN.

If we return to the subject of locks, you might just say "Damn woman, just lock that door." Well I do, on occasion. There are whole days that pass when I can safely lock the bathroom door, do what nature requires and exit feeling lighter with hands scented delightfully from some fancy soap. Those are damn good days, I gotta admit. However there are many more days where me locking the door equals a 12 year old boy in full on autism panic yelling "OPEN DOOR OPEN DOOR" when he realizes I am behind a door he can't get through.

He can't be separated from me. He might not need to be with me 24/7 any longer but he requires it as an option.

Some days this one thing makes me feel like some bizarre alien. All parents experience this with their small children. We tut-tut and giggle over the joy we get when solo showers happen, or being just alone in the bathroom with no spectators. But the prospect of that being your LIFE is sobering. It stops being cute.

It is a form of torture played out on a minuscule scale. A small human dignity shall be disallowed. You won't be harmed by it. It's not worth truly complaining about. In fact compared to all the terrible things that happen in the world you're just fine and seriously hush, you haven't got any problems. Yet, there is it, this thing that other people can expect from their 12 year olds that you as an autism parent can't.

It's unfair.

Life isn't fair, my mom used to say. Get over it.

She was right. It's probably the most important thing she ever taught me. It's pretty much all that gets me through some days.

Bring Her On and Let Her Scream

A close friend asked me this morning "So how much of the day do your twins scream?" and I was surprised by the question. I guess it's a great question though, and it wasn't meant meanly or rudely at all. The question was actually based in a concern for how we as parents handle it, how's the family handling this disability?

I guess that's when it struck me how lately I've been venting my frustrations in this space, my emotions driven by tears and anger and often just me looking for a way to cope. Just like HoneyBooBoo, it makes better entertainment when shit is off the rails but let's face it, even THAT family couldn't eat those huge bags of potato chips as individual servings EVERY day.

Sometimes it's not screaming and carrying on. Sometimes it's holding a baby doll and surfing YouTube for videos of people making food out of Play-Doh (that's a thing) or watching hotel commercials. A major difference is that I don't know when this peace and calm will erupt into hellfire and damnation. His love of doing what you see above can literally run hours. Those are good hours. SO VERY GOOD.

It's when the eruptions occur that I am driven into writing some days when my other options are nil. 12 year old boys are big, their tantrums are bigger.

But that's not who they are completely. They're also little boys, somewhere between 2 and 12 in great big bodies that don't match what's going on inside of their heads.

They love and snuggle. They're very affectionate. They laugh, they howl with laughter when something is funny. They love Snoopy and Elmo and lots of shows.

They're people. They're just people with brains that don't work right and because of it sometimes their world is wrong, and they don't know how to tell you what they need.

Sometimes, just sometimes, they are assholes.

They're selfish because they don't understand boundaries and social norms. That might not "technically" make them assholes but I can promise you their receptive language skills are strong, and they know when I say no and they start screaming that they are trying to FORCE the issue with bad behavior. They are like a two year old pushing your boundary.

Two year olds can be total assholes. So I stand by my previous statement.

Right now behind me is Miles (pictured above) humming Jingle Bells in a frantic hum that is too fast, as though the bells themselves were being chased by something scary. Charlie is twirling a string, his chi as we call it, and seeking his inner peace.

It's been like that most of today except a bit earlier when I asked Miles to please stop playing the Barney theme song slowed down to sound like some demonic dirge.

It's not always hell. It's really not.

But as an autism parent you can't ever stand down. I can't have a beer right now because they would literally stand behind me and scream until they got a drink of it, which they wouldn't, then that would make MORE screaming. OR I would have a drink, feel nice and  relaxed and chill and they'd crap all over the house - thus killing all my calm joy and in my opinion wasting a lovely drink.

Maybe they would just start screaming for reasons undefined. That happens. Something happened. You never know what. And then there is running and screaming. It's not a toddler it's a 12 year old boy running and screaming and flailing LIKE a toddler. But he's not, he's 12.

I guess my point is this - we can go whole days without screaming. No they don't scream all the time. They can say words and frequently do. "Poop" is one of the tops lately. Charming right?

I think the one who needs to scream most days is me. It's not a luxury that's well regarded sadly.

Bring Her On and Let Her Scream

A close friend asked me this morning "So how much of the day do your twins scream?" and I was surprised by the question. I guess it's a great question though, and it wasn't meant meanly or rudely at all. The question was actually based in a concern for how we as parents handle it, how's the family handling this disability?

I guess that's when it struck me how lately I've been venting my frustrations in this space, my emotions driven by tears and anger and often just me looking for a way to cope. Just like HoneyBooBoo, it makes better entertainment when shit is off the rails but let's face it, even THAT family couldn't eat those huge bags of potato chips as individual servings EVERY day.

Sometimes it's not screaming and carrying on. Sometimes it's holding a baby doll and surfing YouTube for videos of people making food out of Play-Doh (that's a thing) or watching hotel commercials. A major difference is that I don't know when this peace and calm will erupt into hellfire and damnation. His love of doing what you see above can literally run hours. Those are good hours. SO VERY GOOD.

It's when the eruptions occur that I am driven into writing some days when my other options are nil. 12 year old boys are big, their tantrums are bigger.

But that's not who they are completely. They're also little boys, somewhere between 2 and 12 in great big bodies that don't match what's going on inside of their heads.

They love and snuggle. They're very affectionate. They laugh, they howl with laughter when something is funny. They love Snoopy and Elmo and lots of shows.

They're people. They're just people with brains that don't work right and because of it sometimes their world is wrong, and they don't know how to tell you what they need.

Sometimes, just sometimes, they are assholes.

They're selfish because they don't understand boundaries and social norms. That might not "technically" make them assholes but I can promise you their receptive language skills are strong, and they know when I say no and they start screaming that they are trying to FORCE the issue with bad behavior. They are like a two year old pushing your boundary.

Two year olds can be total assholes. So I stand by my previous statement.

Right now behind me is Miles (pictured above) humming Jingle Bells in a frantic hum that is too fast, as though the bells themselves were being chased by something scary. Charlie is twirling a string, his chi as we call it, and seeking his inner peace.

It's been like that most of today except a bit earlier when I asked Miles to please stop playing the Barney theme song slowed down to sound like some demonic dirge.

It's not always hell. It's really not.

But as an autism parent you can't ever stand down. I can't have a beer right now because they would literally stand behind me and scream until they got a drink of it, which they wouldn't, then that would make MORE screaming. OR I would have a drink, feel nice and  relaxed and chill and they'd crap all over the house - thus killing all my calm joy and in my opinion wasting a lovely drink.

Maybe they would just start screaming for reasons undefined. That happens. Something happened. You never know what. And then there is running and screaming. It's not a toddler it's a 12 year old boy running and screaming and flailing LIKE a toddler. But he's not, he's 12.

I guess my point is this - we can go whole days without screaming. No they don't scream all the time. They can say words and frequently do. "Poop" is one of the tops lately. Charming right?

I think the one who needs to scream most days is me. It's not a luxury that's well regarded sadly.

Match My Overcompensation

When I was growing up Mom always told me when I didn't feel good I should dress up. I'd feel better with my face on, a pretty dress, something that outwardly said LOOK HOW AWESOME I AM. There is some truth in that, some sort of Tony Robbins gibberish where how you outwardly behave then impacts how people treat you and then how people treat you impacts how you feel yadda yadda yadda.
It kinda works, is my point.

I have a similar tactic for when life is exploding in various forms with my kids. The more crazy autism is making my life and me, the more I dig in to some Betty Crocker- Pioneer woman version of myself. Yesterday was one of those days.

Miles has this thing where he demands I change him when he poops. That doesn't sound unreasonable, actually, and it isn't. I certainly wouldn't want to go around with poop in my pants. However Miles also has a sensory issue with poop. So - and now this is where it gets GRAPHIC so go ahead and look away now. I'm warning you.

He'll poop one tiny smidget of poop. A WEE poop. THEN, at THAT moment he'll start shouting in my face "POOP! POOP!" Yesterday by 9 am he'd done it six times. 'Why don't you set him on the potty?' you might ask with great incredulity because you've raised kids and know a thing or two about potty training. Well, gentle reader, I do. Frequently but not as frequently as I should. The main reason for this is simply that he tends to scream the whole time and frankly sometimes I'm just not fucking up to it.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm human. Sometimes I'm just doing my best to function and what that includes is a level of skilled nursing I wasn't prepared to have to live. Sometimes chaos wins.

Yesterday however, I drank a bunch of coffee and pinned a bunch of workouts on Pinterest (because that burns calories amirite?) and decided I wasn't going to let the day be so very fucked. I was going to be a good MOM WHO DID THINGS WITH HER KIDS instead of some mom trying to dungeon in World of Warcraft on her very wittily named Demon Hunter (Murdurhobo, her name is Murdurhobo - I slay me) anyway I was going to DO STUFF.

Miles was my main trouble maker so I decided we'd bake something, anything, because he LOVES to help bake. My mom left me with a terrible applesauce bread recipe. I mean, it's just not good. I'd vowed for a long time to find a new one, mainly because she used to make some version of applesauce bread that was good and not like the recipe. I found one on the internet and Miles and I spent some quality time stirring and mixing.

In fact it was enough activity for him to chill him the eff out for a while. He got bored with planned activity when I put it into the oven and decided to go watch youtube videos of hotel commercials and people making pretend food out of playdoh (that's a thing, no really).

That was right about when Julia and Louis started fighting. He likes to tell her the shows she watches either aren't real or are stupid. He does this because he's 14. She then starts sobbing and gets mad and yells about how he ruins everything and it's just this whole brother/sister dynamic that is both soul sucking and annoying as hell. At that point I enlisted her to go with me outside to gather pinecones and some more firewood. 

She thinks that it's great, trudging through the forest edge, picking up pine cones and to top it off it was actually cold outside so it took her mind off the injustice that had been wrought by Shimmer and Shine being criticized. 

Adding things to the fire, twigs, pine cones, witches, is entertaining to the kids and so we sat and burned various things from the woods for a while and no one thought to be critical of a talking sponge who lives in a pineapple while we did it. 

This peace lasted a while. But the sun had to set and with it came more fighting, more demands for a diaper, time on the toilet with screaming the likes of which not heard since Torquemada was around, and general wearing down of my I AM A GOOD MOM I AM SPENDING TIME WITH MY KIDS mentality. 

I did choose a workout and did it and I admit I felt some better. I felt less like crying and screaming so that was a plus. It cleared my head to enough to realize it was time to do some more together stuff so I decided to make a potato side dish I'd seen online and Miles could help with - there was stirring involved. Julia came to consider helping but she was busy being Elsa apparently so it was just me and Miles. He ate a piece of raw potato and seemed upset with me that it wasn't as tasty as raw batter. While he stirred and I chopped, the sounds of Elsa and her brother playing Battlefront came from the living room - there was peace in the Empire apparently, after all.

These potatoes? Pretty damn good if I do say so myself. 

I cleaned up dinner and loaded the dishwasher and realized I HAD SURVIVED a day. It wasn't the worst day. It wasn't a cry in the shower because the world is so wrong day. My husband just had them for three solid days while I was gone and he needed a day away to watch football and chill -so it's not like I was unduly abandoned.

I'm not sure if my need to over-compensate when I'm so frustrated works well or if it just makes me super exhausted in the end. I just know it's my go-to coping tool so in it's own way I suppose it works for me. 

What I do know is that at the end of the day we five sat around a fire watching Luke learn about his heritage and snuggled as though there had been no stress in our day. There had been no fighting, no tantrums, no hysterical screaming when asked to use the potty. It was just us, snuggled up and in various stages of nodding off, happy and loving each other.

I guess that's the goal. Achievement unlocked - Happy Kids.

Match My Overcompensation

When I was growing up Mom always told me when I didn't feel good I should dress up. I'd feel better with my face on, a pretty dress, something that outwardly said LOOK HOW AWESOME I AM. There is some truth in that, some sort of Tony Robbins gibberish where how you outwardly behave then impacts how people treat you and then how people treat you impacts how you feel yadda yadda yadda.
It kinda works, is my point.

I have a similar tactic for when life is exploding in various forms with my kids. The more crazy autism is making my life and me, the more I dig in to some Betty Crocker- Pioneer woman version of myself. Yesterday was one of those days.

Miles has this thing where he demands I change him when he poops. That doesn't sound unreasonable, actually, and it isn't. I certainly wouldn't want to go around with poop in my pants. However Miles also has a sensory issue with poop. So - and now this is where it gets GRAPHIC so go ahead and look away now. I'm warning you.

He'll poop one tiny smidget of poop. A WEE poop. THEN, at THAT moment he'll start shouting in my face "POOP! POOP!" Yesterday by 9 am he'd done it six times. 'Why don't you set him on the potty?' you might ask with great incredulity because you've raised kids and know a thing or two about potty training. Well, gentle reader, I do. Frequently but not as frequently as I should. The main reason for this is simply that he tends to scream the whole time and frankly sometimes I'm just not fucking up to it.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm human. Sometimes I'm just doing my best to function and what that includes is a level of skilled nursing I wasn't prepared to have to live. Sometimes chaos wins.

Yesterday however, I drank a bunch of coffee and pinned a bunch of workouts on Pinterest (because that burns calories amirite?) and decided I wasn't going to let the day be so very fucked. I was going to be a good MOM WHO DID THINGS WITH HER KIDS instead of some mom trying to dungeon in World of Warcraft on her very wittily named Demon Hunter (Murdurhobo, her name is Murdurhobo - I slay me) anyway I was going to DO STUFF.

Miles was my main trouble maker so I decided we'd bake something, anything, because he LOVES to help bake. My mom left me with a terrible applesauce bread recipe. I mean, it's just not good. I'd vowed for a long time to find a new one, mainly because she used to make some version of applesauce bread that was good and not like the recipe. I found one on the internet and Miles and I spent some quality time stirring and mixing.

In fact it was enough activity for him to chill him the eff out for a while. He got bored with planned activity when I put it into the oven and decided to go watch youtube videos of hotel commercials and people making pretend food out of playdoh (that's a thing, no really).

That was right about when Julia and Louis started fighting. He likes to tell her the shows she watches either aren't real or are stupid. He does this because he's 14. She then starts sobbing and gets mad and yells about how he ruins everything and it's just this whole brother/sister dynamic that is both soul sucking and annoying as hell. At that point I enlisted her to go with me outside to gather pinecones and some more firewood. 

She thinks that it's great, trudging through the forest edge, picking up pine cones and to top it off it was actually cold outside so it took her mind off the injustice that had been wrought by Shimmer and Shine being criticized. 

Adding things to the fire, twigs, pine cones, witches, is entertaining to the kids and so we sat and burned various things from the woods for a while and no one thought to be critical of a talking sponge who lives in a pineapple while we did it. 

This peace lasted a while. But the sun had to set and with it came more fighting, more demands for a diaper, time on the toilet with screaming the likes of which not heard since Torquemada was around, and general wearing down of my I AM A GOOD MOM I AM SPENDING TIME WITH MY KIDS mentality. 

I did choose a workout and did it and I admit I felt some better. I felt less like crying and screaming so that was a plus. It cleared my head to enough to realize it was time to do some more together stuff so I decided to make a potato side dish I'd seen online and Miles could help with - there was stirring involved. Julia came to consider helping but she was busy being Elsa apparently so it was just me and Miles. He ate a piece of raw potato and seemed upset with me that it wasn't as tasty as raw batter. While he stirred and I chopped, the sounds of Elsa and her brother playing Battlefront came from the living room - there was peace in the Empire apparently, after all.

These potatoes? Pretty damn good if I do say so myself. 

I cleaned up dinner and loaded the dishwasher and realized I HAD SURVIVED a day. It wasn't the worst day. It wasn't a cry in the shower because the world is so wrong day. My husband just had them for three solid days while I was gone and he needed a day away to watch football and chill -so it's not like I was unduly abandoned.

I'm not sure if my need to over-compensate when I'm so frustrated works well or if it just makes me super exhausted in the end. I just know it's my go-to coping tool so in it's own way I suppose it works for me. 

What I do know is that at the end of the day we five sat around a fire watching Luke learn about his heritage and snuggled as though there had been no stress in our day. There had been no fighting, no tantrums, no hysterical screaming when asked to use the potty. It was just us, snuggled up and in various stages of nodding off, happy and loving each other.

I guess that's the goal. Achievement unlocked - Happy Kids.

The Space Between...

....the tears we cry, is the laughter keeps us coming back for more.
                                                                                              ~ Dave Matthews

It gets harder and harder to be an autism parent as they age. I'd say we are in one of those "omg this sucks" times right now. I posted on FACEBOOK that my life exists in between changing shit filled diapers. This is possibly one of the truest things I've ever posted. It's raw, it's unedited and if you had to walk a mile in my shoes you'd get poop under your fingernails I can promise you that.

Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. It's just that getting to GOOD seems to be harder and harder.

It's not as though we won't work through this and find our way to "our" version of normal. I think we will somehow. It's just overwhelming some days. Sometimes it's overwhelming days in a row. Weekends when we go out improve their mood, but it doesn't do a damn thing for the fact that time is still just divided up into the spaces between when diapers need changed.

I have captured here a moment in time. The kids are playing in the nature center and being silly. This moment of parenting relaxing and joy is about to be interrupted by....MILES who has begun to pull on his diaper. Changing a 12 year old boy is a delight lemme tell you. Changing a 12 year old boy in a dank bathroom in a nature center, A+++.

This is every moment in our lives. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER. Insert some screaming for no reason. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER.

Why aren't they potty trained at 12? I don't fucking know. You tell ME how to do it. When you sit a child on the potty at 12 and he nearly breaks the thing screaming and thrashing, it tends to run you down. Especially about the 10th time he does it.

Is it all bad? No it's not. But it's getting to this point where it's running us, as it does sometimes. Sometimes Autism runs the show around here and everything else suffers.

We do our best but we fail because we're humans. I just wish I knew how to make it better. How to mentally survive the never ending diapers that stretch out in front of me to eternity.

Some asshole shot this bald eagle with an arrow. He lost most of one wing because of it and can't fly. He's kept safe here at this retreat we visited a few days ago. Sometimes I think the husband and I feel a little bit like him. Trapped. Nothing really wrong, we've got food and shelter and what we need.

But we are trapped for the rest of our lives by autism. We'll never be free.

If you think that isn't daunting, bless your heart.

The Space Between...

....the tears we cry, is the laughter keeps us coming back for more.
                                                                                              ~ Dave Matthews

It gets harder and harder to be an autism parent as they age. I'd say we are in one of those "omg this sucks" times right now. I posted on FACEBOOK that my life exists in between changing shit filled diapers. This is possibly one of the truest things I've ever posted. It's raw, it's unedited and if you had to walk a mile in my shoes you'd get poop under your fingernails I can promise you that.

Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. It's just that getting to GOOD seems to be harder and harder.

It's not as though we won't work through this and find our way to "our" version of normal. I think we will somehow. It's just overwhelming some days. Sometimes it's overwhelming days in a row. Weekends when we go out improve their mood, but it doesn't do a damn thing for the fact that time is still just divided up into the spaces between when diapers need changed.

I have captured here a moment in time. The kids are playing in the nature center and being silly. This moment of parenting relaxing and joy is about to be interrupted by....MILES who has begun to pull on his diaper. Changing a 12 year old boy is a delight lemme tell you. Changing a 12 year old boy in a dank bathroom in a nature center, A+++.

This is every moment in our lives. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER. Insert some screaming for no reason. LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE DIAPER.

Why aren't they potty trained at 12? I don't fucking know. You tell ME how to do it. When you sit a child on the potty at 12 and he nearly breaks the thing screaming and thrashing, it tends to run you down. Especially about the 10th time he does it.

Is it all bad? No it's not. But it's getting to this point where it's running us, as it does sometimes. Sometimes Autism runs the show around here and everything else suffers.

We do our best but we fail because we're humans. I just wish I knew how to make it better. How to mentally survive the never ending diapers that stretch out in front of me to eternity.

Some asshole shot this bald eagle with an arrow. He lost most of one wing because of it and can't fly. He's kept safe here at this retreat we visited a few days ago. Sometimes I think the husband and I feel a little bit like him. Trapped. Nothing really wrong, we've got food and shelter and what we need.

But we are trapped for the rest of our lives by autism. We'll never be free.

If you think that isn't daunting, bless your heart.

In Between Workouts and Coffee

I'm having one of those "both sides of the coin" Autism Mom mornings. I'm probably not actually supposed to capitalize those letters in Autism Mom but I'm going to as I think it should be a proper noun. Anything that can run the gauntlet from amazing to infuriating to fucking vile in less than six hours should be a proper noun.

Amazing is often my early AM hours. Usually Miles will steal into my room. If my husband hasn't come to bed yet (he's a night owl) Miles will sleep on his side and find his own comfy spot. But if it's after 6 am or so and the bed is fully occupied he slips beside me and will whisper "snuggle" to me. This morning he was drowsy and heavy lidded, not saying a word as he rested his head on my chest, just under my chin. His warm breath was on my neck as he wrapped an arm and a leg around me and I just rested there, holding him tight and feeling perfectly in love with him. I looked at his long lashes and his perfect pouty lips, and I couldn't remember a moment of him shrieking, tearing at his skin until he bled and then tearing some more. I couldn't remember him trying to hurt his siblings, or me, or breaking things because he could. I just see that baby they handed me, while his twin waited to be born, and I love him so much.

Infuriating usually pops up AROUND breakfast time. For whatever reason, despite his obvious DESIRE to eat, being told to eat often provokes rage. I've tried "suggesting". I've tried just mentioning there was food to other people. There is screaming, there is stomping. Sometimes he throws his food under the table (delightful). Today he apparently threw Cocoa Pebbles all over my dining room.

HAVE YOU EVER FUCKING HAD TO CLEAN UP COCOA PEBBLES THAT HAVE BEEN TOSSED HITHER AND YON?

I have. About 10:42 this morning. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say it's over.

Fucking vile would be a range of topics in the world of Autism Mom world. It's not stuff we like to talk about, and I'm not sure why. I've written about trying potty training. Our dislike of poop and pee being all over our house is generally why it gets discarded. We've failed again so that means we've got 12 year olds in diapers. We have 12 year olds who are HEADLONG INTO PUBERTY in diapers.

That is exactly as gross as you think it is.

I don't think of it as gross, really, as I'm doing what needs to be done. I think of it as a job that must happen and I must do it. These are my children and they need this help from me, the person who brought them into the world and didn't get their DNA quite right somehow. (No I don't blame me, well maybe I do because DNA but that's a different post). What I know is they need me to help them, and so no matter how gross what I have to deal with is - I divide it into the sub-parts of this job and I get it done. What are the sub-parts?

• Prep
• Get diapers
• Get wipes
• Get an extra pair of shorts (or 2)
• Get a bag for the dirty diapers
• Open the bathroom door so you don't have to touch it with your hands (because if you have poop all over your hands omg you can't get that fucking door open I promise you)
• Get down the box of butt creams (yep)
• Bring in child
• Assess situation - wet or muddy?
• Clean as necessary
• Assess skin condition 
• If needed refer to contents of butt creams and apply what is needed
• If not needed clean appropriately
• Put dirty diapers and wipes in bag. A walmart bag specifically
• Put clean shorts on child if necessary (usually is)
• Tie up bag and take to top of stairs so it can be carried away
• Wash hands for an eternity. Then wash them again. Then use hand sanitizer. Sniff hands. Wash again if necessary.
• Give child shorts to put on
• Carry bag away and throw it in the garage trash can
• Lather, rinse, repeat ad infinitum 

It becomes vile because...they are 12. They poop like men. They are anatomically becoming men. You ever tried to clean poop out of pubic hair? IT ISN'T FUCKING EASY FOLKS. 

It's noon now, and I will most likely experience two of those three feelings again before I walk out the door for my day. People will say things such as "I don't now how you do it." To which I'll just always tell you the same thing.

I don't have any fucking choice.

The coffee thief himself, surfing Youtube this morning.

In Between Workouts and Coffee

I'm having one of those "both sides of the coin" Autism Mom mornings. I'm probably not actually supposed to capitalize those letters in Autism Mom but I'm going to as I think it should be a proper noun. Anything that can run the gauntlet from amazing to infuriating to fucking vile in less than six hours should be a proper noun.

Amazing is often my early AM hours. Usually Miles will steal into my room. If my husband hasn't come to bed yet (he's a night owl) Miles will sleep on his side and find his own comfy spot. But if it's after 6 am or so and the bed is fully occupied he slips beside me and will whisper "snuggle" to me. This morning he was drowsy and heavy lidded, not saying a word as he rested his head on my chest, just under my chin. His warm breath was on my neck as he wrapped an arm and a leg around me and I just rested there, holding him tight and feeling perfectly in love with him. I looked at his long lashes and his perfect pouty lips, and I couldn't remember a moment of him shrieking, tearing at his skin until he bled and then tearing some more. I couldn't remember him trying to hurt his siblings, or me, or breaking things because he could. I just see that baby they handed me, while his twin waited to be born, and I love him so much.

Infuriating usually pops up AROUND breakfast time. For whatever reason, despite his obvious DESIRE to eat, being told to eat often provokes rage. I've tried "suggesting". I've tried just mentioning there was food to other people. There is screaming, there is stomping. Sometimes he throws his food under the table (delightful). Today he apparently threw Cocoa Pebbles all over my dining room.

HAVE YOU EVER FUCKING HAD TO CLEAN UP COCOA PEBBLES THAT HAVE BEEN TOSSED HITHER AND YON?

I have. About 10:42 this morning. I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say it's over.

Fucking vile would be a range of topics in the world of Autism Mom world. It's not stuff we like to talk about, and I'm not sure why. I've written about trying potty training. Our dislike of poop and pee being all over our house is generally why it gets discarded. We've failed again so that means we've got 12 year olds in diapers. We have 12 year olds who are HEADLONG INTO PUBERTY in diapers.

That is exactly as gross as you think it is.

I don't think of it as gross, really, as I'm doing what needs to be done. I think of it as a job that must happen and I must do it. These are my children and they need this help from me, the person who brought them into the world and didn't get their DNA quite right somehow. (No I don't blame me, well maybe I do because DNA but that's a different post). What I know is they need me to help them, and so no matter how gross what I have to deal with is - I divide it into the sub-parts of this job and I get it done. What are the sub-parts?

• Prep
• Get diapers
• Get wipes
• Get an extra pair of shorts (or 2)
• Get a bag for the dirty diapers
• Open the bathroom door so you don't have to touch it with your hands (because if you have poop all over your hands omg you can't get that fucking door open I promise you)
• Get down the box of butt creams (yep)
• Bring in child
• Assess situation - wet or muddy?
• Clean as necessary
• Assess skin condition 
• If needed refer to contents of butt creams and apply what is needed
• If not needed clean appropriately
• Put dirty diapers and wipes in bag. A walmart bag specifically
• Put clean shorts on child if necessary (usually is)
• Tie up bag and take to top of stairs so it can be carried away
• Wash hands for an eternity. Then wash them again. Then use hand sanitizer. Sniff hands. Wash again if necessary.
• Give child shorts to put on
• Carry bag away and throw it in the garage trash can
• Lather, rinse, repeat ad infinitum 

It becomes vile because...they are 12. They poop like men. They are anatomically becoming men. You ever tried to clean poop out of pubic hair? IT ISN'T FUCKING EASY FOLKS. 

It's noon now, and I will most likely experience two of those three feelings again before I walk out the door for my day. People will say things such as "I don't now how you do it." To which I'll just always tell you the same thing.

I don't have any fucking choice.

The coffee thief himself, surfing Youtube this morning.

The Lessons Of The Past

Autistic children do better with a routine. This is a pretty well known fact, and truthfully it's rather like CANNON in the world of Autism. Just as you know Darth Vader didn't say "Luke, I'm your father." (Or you should know because my God don't you have the Internet why don't you know?) you also know that "Autistic children do better with a routine."

I'd say that what's possibly more true is that autistic PARENTS do better with a routine. Just as parents of newborns have to map out their lives with this tiny human who requires 24/7 man to man coverage, autistic children need certain things and they need them from you and not when you feel like it.

I have a bath time routine that while it's not a "RULE" it's a guideline. I sit with them, as if they are small, and I WATCH them. History has taught me over the past 12 years that to sit in the other room, on my bed reading a book or what have you, simply leads to disaster. It's boring in the master bath while they play.  It's a fairly unpleasant time as they are 12 and have discovered that they are boys but we aren't to the point where I am MANDATED by decency to wash them alone. That day is near, however. I play phone games like Gummy Drop, Candy Crush's less cool cousin (but I can say "I don't play Candy Crush"), Linez, and Blek all round out my iphone entertainment. Plus Facebook and Plurk, and checking FLICKR and texting people are part of my repertoire.

I scrub them, wash faces and hair and let them return to playing in the water. I resume whatever game, or conversation, and after a while we drain the water and get out and on with our lives.

Tonight, however, I have this new book. It's so very good. It's Margaret Atwood and she's who I want to be when I grow up. Her words are like a conversation with a good friend. So I took my book after I got them clean, and I stretched out on my bed and set a timer for 15 minutes. That seemed like enough time for me to indulge in a little fiction and them to play with water and toys. I noted that Miles had dumped LITERALLY every toy into the tub, and they were happy.

It seemed like at 12 maybe we were at a different place. I dove into my book, keeping and ear out for sounds that seemed dangerous or distressful.

As my timer went off I called out "Miles pull the drain, Charlie stand up." At the same time, Miles shouted "WIPE! I NEED WIPE!"

Oh no.

Oh NO NO NO NO NO.

At first I thought, just maybe he thinks he needs to poop. I rushed in and took Charlie's hand - who was already standing and walked him out of the tub. I scanned the water like Captain Quinn searching for danger and OH MY GOD THERE IT WAS.

A turd.

He had dropped a HUGE TURD in the tub. In the tub FULL OF BATH TOYS AS WELL AS HIS BROTHER.

The water is going down. The turd is actually a solid turd (Praise whomever you like) but it's now water logging and sinking and is going to lay and melt grossly across the plethora of toys beneath is. I did want any panicked mother would do.

I slammed both hands into the water and pulled out that turd, flinging it into the toilet in horror.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I manged to get the water on in the sink with my elbow and scrub better than any surgeon in the history of the world. I was crying and laughing and furious with myself because if I had BEEN there I would've seen the physical signs that he needed to go and I would have intervened. I scrubbed again and again and again. I used the hand sanitizer and then I used it on Charlie's legs because they had clearly been in poop water. I didn't even know what else had been in poop water. I used a clean wash cloth to wash Miles off again out of the tub and got them both...dealt with.

Routines. Sit with them in the bathtub. My husband has the bath toys soaking in bleach, and I'm soaking my soul with...I don't know what. I feel like I got kicked in the face. I should be able to do one normal thing in my life, but I can't.

Some days I resent it more than others.

The Lessons Of The Past

Autistic children do better with a routine. This is a pretty well known fact, and truthfully it's rather like CANNON in the world of Autism. Just as you know Darth Vader didn't say "Luke, I'm your father." (Or you should know because my God don't you have the Internet why don't you know?) you also know that "Autistic children do better with a routine."

I'd say that what's possibly more true is that autistic PARENTS do better with a routine. Just as parents of newborns have to map out their lives with this tiny human who requires 24/7 man to man coverage, autistic children need certain things and they need them from you and not when you feel like it.

I have a bath time routine that while it's not a "RULE" it's a guideline. I sit with them, as if they are small, and I WATCH them. History has taught me over the past 12 years that to sit in the other room, on my bed reading a book or what have you, simply leads to disaster. It's boring in the master bath while they play.  It's a fairly unpleasant time as they are 12 and have discovered that they are boys but we aren't to the point where I am MANDATED by decency to wash them alone. That day is near, however. I play phone games like Gummy Drop, Candy Crush's less cool cousin (but I can say "I don't play Candy Crush"), Linez, and Blek all round out my iphone entertainment. Plus Facebook and Plurk, and checking FLICKR and texting people are part of my repertoire.

I scrub them, wash faces and hair and let them return to playing in the water. I resume whatever game, or conversation, and after a while we drain the water and get out and on with our lives.

Tonight, however, I have this new book. It's so very good. It's Margaret Atwood and she's who I want to be when I grow up. Her words are like a conversation with a good friend. So I took my book after I got them clean, and I stretched out on my bed and set a timer for 15 minutes. That seemed like enough time for me to indulge in a little fiction and them to play with water and toys. I noted that Miles had dumped LITERALLY every toy into the tub, and they were happy.

It seemed like at 12 maybe we were at a different place. I dove into my book, keeping and ear out for sounds that seemed dangerous or distressful.

As my timer went off I called out "Miles pull the drain, Charlie stand up." At the same time, Miles shouted "WIPE! I NEED WIPE!"

Oh no.

Oh NO NO NO NO NO.

At first I thought, just maybe he thinks he needs to poop. I rushed in and took Charlie's hand - who was already standing and walked him out of the tub. I scanned the water like Captain Quinn searching for danger and OH MY GOD THERE IT WAS.

A turd.

He had dropped a HUGE TURD in the tub. In the tub FULL OF BATH TOYS AS WELL AS HIS BROTHER.

The water is going down. The turd is actually a solid turd (Praise whomever you like) but it's now water logging and sinking and is going to lay and melt grossly across the plethora of toys beneath is. I did want any panicked mother would do.

I slammed both hands into the water and pulled out that turd, flinging it into the toilet in horror.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I manged to get the water on in the sink with my elbow and scrub better than any surgeon in the history of the world. I was crying and laughing and furious with myself because if I had BEEN there I would've seen the physical signs that he needed to go and I would have intervened. I scrubbed again and again and again. I used the hand sanitizer and then I used it on Charlie's legs because they had clearly been in poop water. I didn't even know what else had been in poop water. I used a clean wash cloth to wash Miles off again out of the tub and got them both...dealt with.

Routines. Sit with them in the bathtub. My husband has the bath toys soaking in bleach, and I'm soaking my soul with...I don't know what. I feel like I got kicked in the face. I should be able to do one normal thing in my life, but I can't.

Some days I resent it more than others.

It Never Stops

Two of my babies are 12. They are still, and may always be in some ways, babies. On Saturday at the train event, at one point both Miles and Charlie climbed up on a truck or tractor and then held out their arms to me to rescue them. A toddler might hold out their arms expectantly, and leap into your arms. When a 12 year old boy does it, I promise it's a different experience.

Charlie is so tall and heavy I can't truly hold him any more. He likes to sit on my lap like a baby, he likes to snuggle, but I can't truly carry him - he's simply too big. Miles is quite a bit smaller and quite a bit lighter, even though as you can see he's a great big boy.

He would let me carry him around a lot, pretty happily. He's greedy with his Mommy time. Since he was a baby it's been his opinion that the only baby that mattered was Miles. 

It's a conundrum, these boys that are turning into men. They aren't truly babies. They are growing but they aren't growing up. Aging is what they are doing. Time is passing and with it the biological things happen. But Cookie Monster is still hilarious, as is Lazytown, and all those other shows your 12 year olds left behind. We haven't outgrown and donated/yard sale(d) our baby toys, not all of them. They are still played with in many cases.

I don't know what it will be like to have men who watch Sesame Street and who want goodnight stories. Men who might still wear diapers and call me Mommy. Then I remember my joy when they learned to call me that, at the age of four or five, so maybe I'll just be happy they call me anything.

This time last year, my mom was in a place I don't know if I can ever be in - she was ready to die. She was very ill, disease was being quite the asshole to her. For her, the only thing she needed - in fact she said this even years before, was to know that her children were strong and safe. She knew that we'd be fine no matter what happened. She was right. We're a little broken and we're very sad but we're strong and we're safe. We're ok and we have each other.

How am I supposed to ever be able to die when I will always have my Miles and Charlie who need me so much? How?

I guess I can't die then. Perfect.

It Never Stops

Two of my babies are 12. They are still, and may always be in some ways, babies. On Saturday at the train event, at one point both Miles and Charlie climbed up on a truck or tractor and then held out their arms to me to rescue them. A toddler might hold out their arms expectantly, and leap into your arms. When a 12 year old boy does it, I promise it's a different experience.

Charlie is so tall and heavy I can't truly hold him any more. He likes to sit on my lap like a baby, he likes to snuggle, but I can't truly carry him - he's simply too big. Miles is quite a bit smaller and quite a bit lighter, even though as you can see he's a great big boy.

He would let me carry him around a lot, pretty happily. He's greedy with his Mommy time. Since he was a baby it's been his opinion that the only baby that mattered was Miles. 

It's a conundrum, these boys that are turning into men. They aren't truly babies. They are growing but they aren't growing up. Aging is what they are doing. Time is passing and with it the biological things happen. But Cookie Monster is still hilarious, as is Lazytown, and all those other shows your 12 year olds left behind. We haven't outgrown and donated/yard sale(d) our baby toys, not all of them. They are still played with in many cases.

I don't know what it will be like to have men who watch Sesame Street and who want goodnight stories. Men who might still wear diapers and call me Mommy. Then I remember my joy when they learned to call me that, at the age of four or five, so maybe I'll just be happy they call me anything.

This time last year, my mom was in a place I don't know if I can ever be in - she was ready to die. She was very ill, disease was being quite the asshole to her. For her, the only thing she needed - in fact she said this even years before, was to know that her children were strong and safe. She knew that we'd be fine no matter what happened. She was right. We're a little broken and we're very sad but we're strong and we're safe. We're ok and we have each other.

How am I supposed to ever be able to die when I will always have my Miles and Charlie who need me so much? How?

I guess I can't die then. Perfect.

You Must Be Ever Watchful

Autism parents don't ever get a break. I just sat down, on a so called break after work, and see shredded little toe separator thingys that I have owned for at least ten years. They've been shredded into oblivion - a victim of Autism's love of shredding and destruction.

In fairness I had owned them forever and they were super cheap and not a great financial or sentimental loss. How they came to be destroyed is a simple story. I gave myself a pedicure yesterday at home and while my toes were wet I ambled up the stairs, doing the heel heavy lumber of one whose toes are separated to keep those wet toenails apart. I sat down at the computer and eventually the polish dried and I pulled them out of my toes. As we set drinks and food on our table here that we use for a desk, I chose to set them on my computer tower underneath.

And there I left them. There Miles or Charlie found them and pulled them into 10000 pieces.

The problem isn't that they shredded or destroyed something that I will replace for a couple of bucks. It's that those toe separators represent every single thing in the universe. Nothing is safe. I can never, NEVER, let down my guard.

I let down my guard yesterday.

It could have been poison. It could have been breakable, It could have been something irreplaceable. It could have been a piece of the one true cross it doesn't matter, had it been left behind it would be possibly subject to destruction.

Miles and Charlie like to take things apart to see what they are and how they work. Sometimes they just like to pull things into many pieces and throw those pieces around. Usually it's the latter, frankly.

That's what it's like, mostly. You can never, ever be off duty. If you are with them, you're on duty. You're responsible. You have to constantly be aware, what's in your mouth? What do you have? Please don't bang that against the wood finish. What is that? Don't tear that please. Don't sit on top of that you're breaking it. Stop. Stop. Stop. STOP.

Mostly it's not just the destruction of the things. It's about them being safe.  Sometimes it's because those things are loved by others - other children or adults, and we'd like them not destroyed. We've replaced some things over and over. My husband tapes books back together over and over and over again. He could work at the public library easily if that's a skill they need there.

I let my guard down.

It'll happen again, and I hope it will only be something like toe separators. That's about the best I can hope for. I'm human. I'm going to make this mistake again.

You Must Be Ever Watchful

Autism parents don't ever get a break. I just sat down, on a so called break after work, and see shredded little toe separator thingys that I have owned for at least ten years. They've been shredded into oblivion - a victim of Autism's love of shredding and destruction.

In fairness I had owned them forever and they were super cheap and not a great financial or sentimental loss. How they came to be destroyed is a simple story. I gave myself a pedicure yesterday at home and while my toes were wet I ambled up the stairs, doing the heel heavy lumber of one whose toes are separated to keep those wet toenails apart. I sat down at the computer and eventually the polish dried and I pulled them out of my toes. As we set drinks and food on our table here that we use for a desk, I chose to set them on my computer tower underneath.

And there I left them. There Miles or Charlie found them and pulled them into 10000 pieces.

The problem isn't that they shredded or destroyed something that I will replace for a couple of bucks. It's that those toe separators represent every single thing in the universe. Nothing is safe. I can never, NEVER, let down my guard.

I let down my guard yesterday.

It could have been poison. It could have been breakable, It could have been something irreplaceable. It could have been a piece of the one true cross it doesn't matter, had it been left behind it would be possibly subject to destruction.

Miles and Charlie like to take things apart to see what they are and how they work. Sometimes they just like to pull things into many pieces and throw those pieces around. Usually it's the latter, frankly.

That's what it's like, mostly. You can never, ever be off duty. If you are with them, you're on duty. You're responsible. You have to constantly be aware, what's in your mouth? What do you have? Please don't bang that against the wood finish. What is that? Don't tear that please. Don't sit on top of that you're breaking it. Stop. Stop. Stop. STOP.

Mostly it's not just the destruction of the things. It's about them being safe.  Sometimes it's because those things are loved by others - other children or adults, and we'd like them not destroyed. We've replaced some things over and over. My husband tapes books back together over and over and over again. He could work at the public library easily if that's a skill they need there.

I let my guard down.

It'll happen again, and I hope it will only be something like toe separators. That's about the best I can hope for. I'm human. I'm going to make this mistake again.

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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