Semi Trucks and Hot Wax

I'm busy having a midlife crisis or so I hear, and in the spirit of that I'm embracing new things and trying to expand my boundaries.
I did something quite new on Monday. I was leaving work to go meet my family to buy shoes for the kids since they were off for President's day, and got hit by a semi.
That was new.

I haven't ever been in accident as an adult, nor as a driver. I was in the car once when my mom was hit head on by a dude who crossed the center lane. It was before cell phones and I don't even remember it that well. It was pouring rain, and it all took a long time. Those things I recall.

This dude was stopped and then decided to back up and when it was all said and done the front of my van was slammed into his tires. Luckily I had actually stopped, thinking he'd see me and stop also. I had nowhere to go and watching that big old rig keep backing up was one of the least pleasant experiences of my week. I could have bailed out, had he continued to back up and smoosh my car. But luckily he felt or heard the impact and stopped.

So that's a thing I can say I have done. I have been hit by a semi. I think most people are not quite so fortunate as I. I've got this strained IT band thing, causing me some hip pain and soreness. I'm probably going to talk to my doctor about it again because it's not much better but all in all I know full well it could have been MUCH worse.

The other thing I did was add to my personal grooming routine. While it's pretty well established that I'm an eyebrow threading addict, and I love a good mani/pedi like all other surburban dweller females, now I've adding a new level of WAXING to my life.

I went and got the Brazilian wax.

I went to Brazilian Wax by Andrea which is a local chain and is RIDICULOUSLY CHEAP. It's supposed to be one of the best places around for this sort of shenanigans and I figured I am almost 50 let's live a little. I've done funky colors thanks to Betty Beauty. I've done shaving. I've done 70s porn bush. I've rocked the gauntlet with the except of adding a merkin. I thought it was time to spread my wings, so to speak.

So first of all, this isn't for the modest. I've had four kids so I'm all out of modesty. A small waif of a human, possibly an elf, with a shocking red color of hair came in and began chatting me up and she slathered lava on my crotch.

Oddly, it wasn't that bad, sort of like wow that's hot but then it got better.

We chatted about Betty Beauty (above linked) and various waxing things and the EpiLady of old and somewhere in all this chatter she began THE REMOVAL.

Honestly, it just wasn't that bad.

If you've ever had your eyebrows waxed okay yes, it feels exactly like that. It feels like that OVER a greater area of skin at one time but it's just exactly like that. It wasn't some sort of fresh hell of agony invented by the Great Satan to torture us ladies for Eve's sins. No it just was just, "Oh Damn" and then it was over. Now repeat that few times.

There's a bit of an indignity as you're making small talk with someone who's busily grooming your crotch but let's face it, you wouldn't be waxing off your pubes if you were hugely concerned about your dignity now would you?

There is nothing dignified about spreading your ass cheeks while laying face down so she can clean up your "rear area". If dignity is high on your list, leave this off.

I had to take a week off from working out after the accident, so I've spent it eating candy and losing my dignity at the hands of an elf human hybrid.

But hey, now I can say that's another thing I've done. I'm going back for legs and armpits - and will I keep the Brazilian?

Wouldn't you like to know?

Semi Trucks and Hot Wax

I'm busy having a midlife crisis or so I hear, and in the spirit of that I'm embracing new things and trying to expand my boundaries.
I did something quite new on Monday. I was leaving work to go meet my family to buy shoes for the kids since they were off for President's day, and got hit by a semi.
That was new.

I haven't ever been in accident as an adult, nor as a driver. I was in the car once when my mom was hit head on by a dude who crossed the center lane. It was before cell phones and I don't even remember it that well. It was pouring rain, and it all took a long time. Those things I recall.

This dude was stopped and then decided to back up and when it was all said and done the front of my van was slammed into his tires. Luckily I had actually stopped, thinking he'd see me and stop also. I had nowhere to go and watching that big old rig keep backing up was one of the least pleasant experiences of my week. I could have bailed out, had he continued to back up and smoosh my car. But luckily he felt or heard the impact and stopped.

So that's a thing I can say I have done. I have been hit by a semi. I think most people are not quite so fortunate as I. I've got this strained IT band thing, causing me some hip pain and soreness. I'm probably going to talk to my doctor about it again because it's not much better but all in all I know full well it could have been MUCH worse.

The other thing I did was add to my personal grooming routine. While it's pretty well established that I'm an eyebrow threading addict, and I love a good mani/pedi like all other surburban dweller females, now I've adding a new level of WAXING to my life.

I went and got the Brazilian wax.

I went to Brazilian Wax by Andrea which is a local chain and is RIDICULOUSLY CHEAP. It's supposed to be one of the best places around for this sort of shenanigans and I figured I am almost 50 let's live a little. I've done funky colors thanks to Betty Beauty. I've done shaving. I've done 70s porn bush. I've rocked the gauntlet with the except of adding a merkin. I thought it was time to spread my wings, so to speak.

So first of all, this isn't for the modest. I've had four kids so I'm all out of modesty. A small waif of a human, possibly an elf, with a shocking red color of hair came in and began chatting me up and she slathered lava on my crotch.

Oddly, it wasn't that bad, sort of like wow that's hot but then it got better.

We chatted about Betty Beauty (above linked) and various waxing things and the EpiLady of old and somewhere in all this chatter she began THE REMOVAL.

Honestly, it just wasn't that bad.

If you've ever had your eyebrows waxed okay yes, it feels exactly like that. It feels like that OVER a greater area of skin at one time but it's just exactly like that. It wasn't some sort of fresh hell of agony invented by the Great Satan to torture us ladies for Eve's sins. No it just was just, "Oh Damn" and then it was over. Now repeat that few times.

There's a bit of an indignity as you're making small talk with someone who's busily grooming your crotch but let's face it, you wouldn't be waxing off your pubes if you were hugely concerned about your dignity now would you?

There is nothing dignified about spreading your ass cheeks while laying face down so she can clean up your "rear area". If dignity is high on your list, leave this off.

I had to take a week off from working out after the accident, so I've spent it eating candy and losing my dignity at the hands of an elf human hybrid.

But hey, now I can say that's another thing I've done. I'm going back for legs and armpits - and will I keep the Brazilian?

Wouldn't you like to know?

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.

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.

The Never Ending Therapy of The Vince Guaraldi Trio

I spent my lunch hour yesterday searching for something that would be perfect to take to the twin mom's Bingo party tonight. Unlike funerals where one would search the "freezes beautifully" section of food.com I was looking for "something that moms who wipe more butts than most people can imagine" would enjoy. This usually involves chocolate or booze or both. I settled on something called a chocolate chip toffee brittle. As I drove through the woods headed to the grocery a thought floated through my head in my mother's voice, "Apparently named by someone who doesn't actually know what brittle is."

That snark was so real, so accurate and on point with something my mom would've said that I began to cry driving through the stupid storm that was picking up. The road I was headed down doesn't have much for street lights so I sniffled and tried to get ahold of myself. It's a perfect road to slide over a bit too far accidentally and slam into oncoming traffic.

Right about then is when the Vince Guaraldi Trio saved me.

Most people know the Vince Guaraldi Trio quite well thanks to their work providing music for the Peanuts. That in itself is nearly enough to put anyone in a happier place. When I was in college though, I learned that the chart Linus and Lucy has magical stress relieving powers. It worked like this...

The basement of the music department at my university was where all of the practice rooms where. Dank, cool little rooms down one cement block hallway painted what was probably a cream color in some past decade. The doors would be closed and you'd hear the same bars over and over, rarely a whole piece. You'd hear the fingering that was tricky, you'd hear the notes that were always being over or under blown, you'd hear music dissected, pulled apart, into the pieces that the listener doesn't always discern but the musician has to master to make it whole. I was a secondary music education major and also a world class procrastinator. This meant that I spent more than my fair share of time in practice rooms LATE in the day. 

Nearly every room was fitted with a grand piano, if not there was an upright shoved into the corner. There was something soothing and peaceful about being in the womb of that sterile place with music floating through the air. It wasn't comfortable, yet it was a place I liked to be. It was like being with your tribe, even though everyone was in a room alone struggling with bars that were defeating them.

As the evenings would progress the stress level would increase. People were getting tired, there was other studying to do. But the music also had to be practiced. When the event horizon of stress and sleep deprivation was reached - a door would open and suddenly you'd hear the base line being plunked out. 

Another door would open, and join in.

Within moments doors were opening down the hall and the familiar tune of Linus and Lucy would thunder and echo through the halls courtesy of 20 or so music students having a stress break. Banging away at the keyboard, playing those notes of our childhood joy for no reason at all other than the peer pressure of it was one of the most cathartic moments of my life. We struggled with 8 bars of this or 4 bars of that BUT As God As My Witness, we'd all master Linus and Lucy and make it ours. It was a concert of one song, played loudly and with joy. It was a musical stress scream that let out our frustrations and reminded us what we loved, music.

As I pulled into the grocery store parking lot yesterday I realized I was smiling, remembering how happy that stupid tune used to make me. It could take away the stress and how annoyed or bad I was feeling about what I was working on. 

I guess it still works.

The Never Ending Therapy of The Vince Guaraldi Trio

I spent my lunch hour yesterday searching for something that would be perfect to take to the twin mom's Bingo party tonight. Unlike funerals where one would search the "freezes beautifully" section of food.com I was looking for "something that moms who wipe more butts than most people can imagine" would enjoy. This usually involves chocolate or booze or both. I settled on something called a chocolate chip toffee brittle. As I drove through the woods headed to the grocery a thought floated through my head in my mother's voice, "Apparently named by someone who doesn't actually know what brittle is."

That snark was so real, so accurate and on point with something my mom would've said that I began to cry driving through the stupid storm that was picking up. The road I was headed down doesn't have much for street lights so I sniffled and tried to get ahold of myself. It's a perfect road to slide over a bit too far accidentally and slam into oncoming traffic.

Right about then is when the Vince Guaraldi Trio saved me.

Most people know the Vince Guaraldi Trio quite well thanks to their work providing music for the Peanuts. That in itself is nearly enough to put anyone in a happier place. When I was in college though, I learned that the chart Linus and Lucy has magical stress relieving powers. It worked like this...

The basement of the music department at my university was where all of the practice rooms where. Dank, cool little rooms down one cement block hallway painted what was probably a cream color in some past decade. The doors would be closed and you'd hear the same bars over and over, rarely a whole piece. You'd hear the fingering that was tricky, you'd hear the notes that were always being over or under blown, you'd hear music dissected, pulled apart, into the pieces that the listener doesn't always discern but the musician has to master to make it whole. I was a secondary music education major and also a world class procrastinator. This meant that I spent more than my fair share of time in practice rooms LATE in the day. 

Nearly every room was fitted with a grand piano, if not there was an upright shoved into the corner. There was something soothing and peaceful about being in the womb of that sterile place with music floating through the air. It wasn't comfortable, yet it was a place I liked to be. It was like being with your tribe, even though everyone was in a room alone struggling with bars that were defeating them.

As the evenings would progress the stress level would increase. People were getting tired, there was other studying to do. But the music also had to be practiced. When the event horizon of stress and sleep deprivation was reached - a door would open and suddenly you'd hear the base line being plunked out. 

Another door would open, and join in.

Within moments doors were opening down the hall and the familiar tune of Linus and Lucy would thunder and echo through the halls courtesy of 20 or so music students having a stress break. Banging away at the keyboard, playing those notes of our childhood joy for no reason at all other than the peer pressure of it was one of the most cathartic moments of my life. We struggled with 8 bars of this or 4 bars of that BUT As God As My Witness, we'd all master Linus and Lucy and make it ours. It was a concert of one song, played loudly and with joy. It was a musical stress scream that let out our frustrations and reminded us what we loved, music.

As I pulled into the grocery store parking lot yesterday I realized I was smiling, remembering how happy that stupid tune used to make me. It could take away the stress and how annoyed or bad I was feeling about what I was working on. 

I guess it still works.

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. 

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.

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.

Peaceful Sometimes

Sometimes, just sometimes, Miles and Charlie are just little boys. Autism isn't raging, no one is out of control. They're still little tiny boys trapped in giant bodies, but they're not a burden or something to deal with. They're just my little guys. After baths last night, I stretched out on my bed to watch videos on my phone because that's really all the further I wanted to go.

Miles climbed into bed and started reciting one of his favorite books - one Tim and Justin sent back when they were born, Ten Wishing Stars.

He wanted to watch a video of that book, so I fired it upon Youtube and Charlie heard it starting. Suddenly I was holding two 12 year old toddlers to watch a story.

I know I look like I'm doing "smell the fart" acting and I don't know why. Maybe my face just always looks like that. But we're cuddled together, just watching this story. We watched it three times, each time with them giggling and cracking up at the silly sheep and their wishes.

I'm not sure if it's the book, or the fact that we watch it in Korean (or some language I'm too ignorant to recognize.) My GUESS is Korean. I can't find an English version on mobile but they don't care.

Let's face it, their English isn't SO good. Another language doesn't phase them.

These moments outweigh the crazy times, the bad times, the sad times. I guess just like the rest of life though, you don't reflect back on the 23 hours that went well. You remember and dwell on the one you got punched in the face.

That's something I am working on. It's not easy.

Nothing worth doing ever is.

Peaceful Sometimes

Sometimes, just sometimes, Miles and Charlie are just little boys. Autism isn't raging, no one is out of control. They're still little tiny boys trapped in giant bodies, but they're not a burden or something to deal with. They're just my little guys. After baths last night, I stretched out on my bed to watch videos on my phone because that's really all the further I wanted to go.

Miles climbed into bed and started reciting one of his favorite books - one Tim and Justin sent back when they were born, Ten Wishing Stars.

He wanted to watch a video of that book, so I fired it upon Youtube and Charlie heard it starting. Suddenly I was holding two 12 year old toddlers to watch a story.

I know I look like I'm doing "smell the fart" acting and I don't know why. Maybe my face just always looks like that. But we're cuddled together, just watching this story. We watched it three times, each time with them giggling and cracking up at the silly sheep and their wishes.

I'm not sure if it's the book, or the fact that we watch it in Korean (or some language I'm too ignorant to recognize.) My GUESS is Korean. I can't find an English version on mobile but they don't care.

Let's face it, their English isn't SO good. Another language doesn't phase them.

These moments outweigh the crazy times, the bad times, the sad times. I guess just like the rest of life though, you don't reflect back on the 23 hours that went well. You remember and dwell on the one you got punched in the face.

That's something I am working on. It's not easy.

Nothing worth doing ever is.

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.