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.

Breathing Is The Hardest Thing To Do

The subject of resentment has come up quite a bit lately with friends as we talk about the world of having disabled children. My friend Christine talked to me about how another blogger she was reading seemed so ANGRY, so upset with her child and that it made it hard to read her. I think that's an easy trap to fall into. I also think that maybe the blogger is writing out her frustrations and sorrow so maybe that's how she keeps from spilling it out onto her child.
We've all read those stories, parent of special needs child commits murder, or murder/suicide, because they can't deal with it ONE MORE MOMENT. Sometimes it's not that simple.
I sat once years ago in a training session with about 40 other special needs parents where we were supposed to learn about waivers and other government help we could get for our children, or at least learn what help there was. A woman sitting a few seats away from me was asking questions about her son who was quadriplegic with many other health issues. I watched her go from hope to exasperation, to hopeless as  the sea of forms and nebulous certainty of what the future held became clearer. She literally said the words, "No one will take my child when I die, no one will help me. At this point I guess when I think I'm close to dying I guess I'll have to kill us both."

Then she started crying.

I understood more about the future in those moments than I had ever conceived possible. What I realized was that you have to sometimes accept the lesser version of your dreams - sometimes it's requisite to your own sanity.

I'd be lying if sometimes I don't break down into tears at story time in the evenings, because I have 12 year olds who still delight at me reading Sandra Boynton books in silly voices. I break down because I wonder who will read these books to them when they are old men with grey hair and I'm long dead. Will they miss these books? Will they be someplace where they are loved? What is going to happen to my children?

The flip side of that is that I accept that I can't completely control what happens. I can make plans, I can try to make arrangements and sort things to the best of my ability. I can't let my soul be destroyed if they don't work out exactly as I want them to. There are a lot of moving pieces in this life, and they don't get nailed down very well when you're a special needs mom.

I get frustrated. I get annoyed when Miles is being a shit head because sometimes he is LEGITIMATELY being a shit head. I get annoyed when either of them is having an autism melt down. But I can't let that feeling of "everything is bad" that might exist in moments or even hours consume me. SOMETIMES they do. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I text my best friend the details of the poop horror show that can be my life.

And then I get on with life.

I make a decision every day, as corny and pinteresty (that's totally a word now) as that might sound. I'm going to be happy. I'm going to pursue things that make me healthy, improve my life, and I'm going to try to be a better person and mom. I'm going to FAIL A LOT. But I'm also going to not fail on some things and that's good to.

That doesn't mean that what I'm writing here is a sugar coated more delicious version of the pain and anguish it is to have two children that aren't what you dreamed of. It just means that I've sorted out how to deal with it, and how I'm not going to let it ruin the one pass I get through this life. This works for me. It might not work for you.

As for me, I look back on photos like this and think man - if I survived that, I can do anything.

You just have to remember to breathe. Sometimes that's the hard bit.

Breathing Is The Hardest Thing To Do

The subject of resentment has come up quite a bit lately with friends as we talk about the world of having disabled children. My friend Christine talked to me about how another blogger she was reading seemed so ANGRY, so upset with her child and that it made it hard to read her. I think that's an easy trap to fall into. I also think that maybe the blogger is writing out her frustrations and sorrow so maybe that's how she keeps from spilling it out onto her child.
We've all read those stories, parent of special needs child commits murder, or murder/suicide, because they can't deal with it ONE MORE MOMENT. Sometimes it's not that simple.
I sat once years ago in a training session with about 40 other special needs parents where we were supposed to learn about waivers and other government help we could get for our children, or at least learn what help there was. A woman sitting a few seats away from me was asking questions about her son who was quadriplegic with many other health issues. I watched her go from hope to exasperation, to hopeless as  the sea of forms and nebulous certainty of what the future held became clearer. She literally said the words, "No one will take my child when I die, no one will help me. At this point I guess when I think I'm close to dying I guess I'll have to kill us both."

Then she started crying.

I understood more about the future in those moments than I had ever conceived possible. What I realized was that you have to sometimes accept the lesser version of your dreams - sometimes it's requisite to your own sanity.

I'd be lying if sometimes I don't break down into tears at story time in the evenings, because I have 12 year olds who still delight at me reading Sandra Boynton books in silly voices. I break down because I wonder who will read these books to them when they are old men with grey hair and I'm long dead. Will they miss these books? Will they be someplace where they are loved? What is going to happen to my children?

The flip side of that is that I accept that I can't completely control what happens. I can make plans, I can try to make arrangements and sort things to the best of my ability. I can't let my soul be destroyed if they don't work out exactly as I want them to. There are a lot of moving pieces in this life, and they don't get nailed down very well when you're a special needs mom.

I get frustrated. I get annoyed when Miles is being a shit head because sometimes he is LEGITIMATELY being a shit head. I get annoyed when either of them is having an autism melt down. But I can't let that feeling of "everything is bad" that might exist in moments or even hours consume me. SOMETIMES they do. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I text my best friend the details of the poop horror show that can be my life.

And then I get on with life.

I make a decision every day, as corny and pinteresty (that's totally a word now) as that might sound. I'm going to be happy. I'm going to pursue things that make me healthy, improve my life, and I'm going to try to be a better person and mom. I'm going to FAIL A LOT. But I'm also going to not fail on some things and that's good to.

That doesn't mean that what I'm writing here is a sugar coated more delicious version of the pain and anguish it is to have two children that aren't what you dreamed of. It just means that I've sorted out how to deal with it, and how I'm not going to let it ruin the one pass I get through this life. This works for me. It might not work for you.

As for me, I look back on photos like this and think man - if I survived that, I can do anything.

You just have to remember to breathe. Sometimes that's the hard bit.

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.

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. 

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.

If You're Going To Hang Out With Us...

There are things you're going to have to know if you're going to hang out with us. The first one would be something like "We Live In A Rainbow of Chaos" which I believe Cezanne said. It's not always good, it's seldom timely, and truly it's messy in a way it's difficult to properly explain.

Consequently, I'm pretty sure that if you're reading this you haven't ever been to my house and you probably haven't ever hung out with us. Most of the reasons for that are on us - truly, we're trying to spare you. Maybe we like to pretend we have it so much more together so I can present you with the HEY LOOK HOW AWESOME WE HANDLE OUR SHIT moments here. Probably not. I promise you, those who have hung out with us can attest to us as a group being at the least tardy and probably a show that's hard to handle.

It's just how we roll.

My oldest son has a best friend, however, who doesn't really ever spend time with us. We love the kid, but we don't want Louis to be embarrassed about how things go down around here so we mostly sanction him going with his friend to THEIR place. It gives Louis a great opportunity to GET AWAY from crazy life and we hope keeps him from being embarrassed at the age of 13 by his 12 year old brothers who hump pillows in the living room  and poop their pants.

That's the the harsh reality of the doin's at our house.

We decided that maybe it was time to change this over the weekend. It was county fair time, everyone's favorite, and so we'd invite his friend and the boys could spend a "little" time with us and then go off together. Hanging out at the county fair as a teen seems like a right of passage, so we felt it was time we gave this a try.

As always we ended up with a late start, but the fair goes until Midnight or some nonsense so who even cares? Deep fried foods await, in the cool evening breeze they'd be even better. We'd warned his friend we'd leave between 3-5 and we finally kicked off at the later end of that interval.

On our way the first harbinger of doom showed up. The air conditioning wasn't blowing "cold" unless the car was going pretty fast, as soon as we slowed down it'd start blowing warm. We'd just HAD this issue and had to have work done. As we headed into fair traffic the temperature gauge on the car went up, up UP. We got lucky and were at a left turn and as the noxious smell began to infiltrate the car we not only turned left but pulled right into an AUTOZONE.

In the backseat Julia has been accosting B (the friend) nonstop with tales of every toy she's brought with her in her survival backpack. There's a boy in the car, there's someone in the car who hasn't heard EVERY SINGLE STORY she knows so he's getting an earful. The boys had been exchanging teenage eyerolls in silence and gesturing to theirs phones surreptitiously but now that we're stopped Louis has gotten out to help his dad and B is alone, victimized by a 6 year old talking machine.

It's decided we blew a fuse so a package of fuses is obtained. Apparently the fuses are in a wonky place and the husband obtains some pink polka dot gardening gloves of mine from the trunk and sets to work.

About this time Julia shrieks. "MILES TOOK A TOOTH OUT OF HIS MOUTH! THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE!!"

B looks at me in shock as I casually open my door and get into the back of the van with a handful of ever present napkins. We stock napkins like the pilgrims stocked bibles. Miles hands me the tooth and says "Toof mouf - he goes aaaaaaaaa" and shows me. Blood is running down his chin, so I wipe him off and show him how to press the napkin into the socket. I examine the tooth, guessing a 12 year old molar (which we think has been causing him behavior issues recently). He decides it's fun to soak napkins with blood and throw them up front. B stares at me in silence, unsure what to think pretty obviously.

About then Charlie puts Julia in a bear-hug headlock and she screams. Once again I have to get up, get out, get in back and this time move Charlie up to sit next to B. Charlie proceeds to poke the bottom of B's shoe repeatedly saying "Shoe. Shoe. Shoe."

The fuse is dropped, the fuse is lost. A smaller fuse is tried. It blows as soon as we drive around the parking lot. The car begins to overheat again and poison again fills our world from the stink of the car.

Did I mention it's hot? I go inside and buy 7 waters and every chugs in the high 80 degree heat, miserable now having sat in this car almost an hour. It's sweltering, Charlie is poking B's shoe, Julia is chatting nonstop about toys and suddenly the hood closes -the FUSE is replaced. Except now it's OVER an hour later and will take us a long time to get into the fair in the fair traffic and OH HELL SCREW IT.

We let the boys decide where we would go to dinner, and that we'd call a birthday dinner for Lou.

This is the part of the story where you learn that even when things go completely sideways with us, hanging out with us can still be pretty fun. The boys chose SHOGUN which is one of my favorite restaurants and with the orders that they could have anything they wanted they were some pretty happy 13 year olds.

They started with some drink that you have to knock a marble or something down into so that the carbonation activates or SOMETHING. I don't know, but they were intensely happy about it.

Then they got to order fillet and scallops so really, I'm pretty sure they didn't miss those deep fried foods on a stick AT ALL.

Miles amazed us by being into the miso soup immediately, we suspect he'd been here with school. Lucky kid gets to go to SHOGUN with school.

Julia was hilarious, she didn't realize that there would be FIRE at the table and so wasn't prepared when the first big blast took place. She solved her issue however and truly enjoyed the rest of the show.

We'd always feared taking the twins there, we weren't quite sure HOW it would go however it went so well we know now it's a place we can go. Julia has asked if we can go there for her birthday. Heck yes we can.

The lesson here is - our lives are crazy. We truly have some nutty things happen in such a regular way that I think we try to save most folks from them. But maybe we're wrong about that. Maybe you'd like coming over and hanging out.

Even when everything goes wrong for us, somehow it ends up pretty good.

Super Lucky Cat knows.

If You're Going To Hang Out With Us...

There are things you're going to have to know if you're going to hang out with us. The first one would be something like "We Live In A Rainbow of Chaos" which I believe Cezanne said. It's not always good, it's seldom timely, and truly it's messy in a way it's difficult to properly explain.

Consequently, I'm pretty sure that if you're reading this you haven't ever been to my house and you probably haven't ever hung out with us. Most of the reasons for that are on us - truly, we're trying to spare you. Maybe we like to pretend we have it so much more together so I can present you with the HEY LOOK HOW AWESOME WE HANDLE OUR SHIT moments here. Probably not. I promise you, those who have hung out with us can attest to us as a group being at the least tardy and probably a show that's hard to handle.

It's just how we roll.

My oldest son has a best friend, however, who doesn't really ever spend time with us. We love the kid, but we don't want Louis to be embarrassed about how things go down around here so we mostly sanction him going with his friend to THEIR place. It gives Louis a great opportunity to GET AWAY from crazy life and we hope keeps him from being embarrassed at the age of 13 by his 12 year old brothers who hump pillows in the living room  and poop their pants.

That's the the harsh reality of the doin's at our house.

We decided that maybe it was time to change this over the weekend. It was county fair time, everyone's favorite, and so we'd invite his friend and the boys could spend a "little" time with us and then go off together. Hanging out at the county fair as a teen seems like a right of passage, so we felt it was time we gave this a try.

As always we ended up with a late start, but the fair goes until Midnight or some nonsense so who even cares? Deep fried foods await, in the cool evening breeze they'd be even better. We'd warned his friend we'd leave between 3-5 and we finally kicked off at the later end of that interval.

On our way the first harbinger of doom showed up. The air conditioning wasn't blowing "cold" unless the car was going pretty fast, as soon as we slowed down it'd start blowing warm. We'd just HAD this issue and had to have work done. As we headed into fair traffic the temperature gauge on the car went up, up UP. We got lucky and were at a left turn and as the noxious smell began to infiltrate the car we not only turned left but pulled right into an AUTOZONE.

In the backseat Julia has been accosting B (the friend) nonstop with tales of every toy she's brought with her in her survival backpack. There's a boy in the car, there's someone in the car who hasn't heard EVERY SINGLE STORY she knows so he's getting an earful. The boys had been exchanging teenage eyerolls in silence and gesturing to theirs phones surreptitiously but now that we're stopped Louis has gotten out to help his dad and B is alone, victimized by a 6 year old talking machine.

It's decided we blew a fuse so a package of fuses is obtained. Apparently the fuses are in a wonky place and the husband obtains some pink polka dot gardening gloves of mine from the trunk and sets to work.

About this time Julia shrieks. "MILES TOOK A TOOTH OUT OF HIS MOUTH! THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE!!"

B looks at me in shock as I casually open my door and get into the back of the van with a handful of ever present napkins. We stock napkins like the pilgrims stocked bibles. Miles hands me the tooth and says "Toof mouf - he goes aaaaaaaaa" and shows me. Blood is running down his chin, so I wipe him off and show him how to press the napkin into the socket. I examine the tooth, guessing a 12 year old molar (which we think has been causing him behavior issues recently). He decides it's fun to soak napkins with blood and throw them up front. B stares at me in silence, unsure what to think pretty obviously.

About then Charlie puts Julia in a bear-hug headlock and she screams. Once again I have to get up, get out, get in back and this time move Charlie up to sit next to B. Charlie proceeds to poke the bottom of B's shoe repeatedly saying "Shoe. Shoe. Shoe."

The fuse is dropped, the fuse is lost. A smaller fuse is tried. It blows as soon as we drive around the parking lot. The car begins to overheat again and poison again fills our world from the stink of the car.

Did I mention it's hot? I go inside and buy 7 waters and every chugs in the high 80 degree heat, miserable now having sat in this car almost an hour. It's sweltering, Charlie is poking B's shoe, Julia is chatting nonstop about toys and suddenly the hood closes -the FUSE is replaced. Except now it's OVER an hour later and will take us a long time to get into the fair in the fair traffic and OH HELL SCREW IT.

We let the boys decide where we would go to dinner, and that we'd call a birthday dinner for Lou.

This is the part of the story where you learn that even when things go completely sideways with us, hanging out with us can still be pretty fun. The boys chose SHOGUN which is one of my favorite restaurants and with the orders that they could have anything they wanted they were some pretty happy 13 year olds.

They started with some drink that you have to knock a marble or something down into so that the carbonation activates or SOMETHING. I don't know, but they were intensely happy about it.

Then they got to order fillet and scallops so really, I'm pretty sure they didn't miss those deep fried foods on a stick AT ALL.

Miles amazed us by being into the miso soup immediately, we suspect he'd been here with school. Lucky kid gets to go to SHOGUN with school.

Julia was hilarious, she didn't realize that there would be FIRE at the table and so wasn't prepared when the first big blast took place. She solved her issue however and truly enjoyed the rest of the show.

We'd always feared taking the twins there, we weren't quite sure HOW it would go however it went so well we know now it's a place we can go. Julia has asked if we can go there for her birthday. Heck yes we can.

The lesson here is - our lives are crazy. We truly have some nutty things happen in such a regular way that I think we try to save most folks from them. But maybe we're wrong about that. Maybe you'd like coming over and hanging out.

Even when everything goes wrong for us, somehow it ends up pretty good.

Super Lucky Cat knows.