Words on The Street

Since I'm a lazy bitch, I can foresee myself inviting guest bloggers over to my little domain of cyber world. It just makes my life easier. Today is the first of these days.

Introducing Jeff Stimpson, proud father to Alex, who happens to have autism. I hereby crown Jeff as Autism's Bitch of the Day. He will receive an "e-tiara and house coat," just because I'm feeling generous.

~Autism's Bitch


My son Alex is 13 and has been watching Elmo and "Sesame Street" most of his life. "Sesame Street" has several characters; the voices of all of them drill into our skulls. "I want," says my wife Jill, "to kill Zoey."

With all our hearts we wish Alex wouldn’t watch "Sesame Street" in the mornings before he shaves and uses roll-on; it chills me to think he might be watching the show in a day program (should the funding for those even still exist) into his thirties.

One educational (and I admit it is educational – just wish it didn’t have to educate my new teenager) segment of Elmo involves babies. "Know ya baby!" says the deep-voiced lady who probably coaches field hockey. "Here’s what to know!" Crying. Sleepless nights. Spitting up. Tell me about it, coach.

To be fair, nobody except those who work at "Sesame Street" are supposed to listen to the these lines for so many years. That doesn’t help when Baby Bear cuts loose. "And looks, a wee little kitten up in a twee." Baby Bear pronounces every R like a W. Isn’t that cute, like the tender note to an old girlfriend that a sniper might leave before climbing into the tower? Baby Bear draws a character of his own, a superhero named Hero Guy (“What a hero! What a guy!”). Hero Guy fucks up getting the kitten out of the twee. Figures. "As a hero guy," he laments, "I have failed. I tried to get the kitty out of the twee but I … I … I couldn’t do it!" Cats get themselves out of trees, loser. Get into the tower.

Lately we’ve spotted Alex watching stuff other than "Sesame Street" on his iPad: Arthur, Bear in the Blue House, even "A Charlie Brown Christmas." We would welcome the sound of these words in our house. I’m afraid the words on "Sesame Street" are why we bought Alex an iPad. It’s also why we bought him headphones.

Jeff Stimpson is a native of Bangor, Maine, and lives in New York with his wife Jill and two sons. He is the author of Alex: The Fathering of a Preemie and Alex the Boy: Episodes From a Family’s Life With Autism (both available on Amazon). He maintains a blog about his family at jeffslife.tripod.com/alextheboy and is a frequent contributor to various sites and publications on special-needs parenting such as Autism-Asperger’s Digest, Autism Spectrum News, the Lostandtired blog, The Autism Society news blog, and An Anthology of Disability Literature (available on Amazon). He is on LinkedIn under “Jeff Stimpson” and Twitter under “Jeffslife.”

Corn Chex Saved My Life

There is little that brings joy to the significantly pregnant. Except maybe food. This story is no different.

There once was a little gluten free girl (you know, kinda like the one with the little curl right in the middle of her forehead). One day, she could only be pleased with a never-ending supply of Lara bars (and those damn things are expensive). In a fit of rage (from who, I won't say), she and her swollen mama grabbed the first two gluten free things they could find: corn chex and peanut butter.

This automatically brought great rejuvenation to the mama and golden silence to the kid.

I highly recommend it.

The end.

Ho, Ho, Humbug

You might think of me as an Elf-on-the-Shelf, cookie bakin', Bing Crosby playin', cheese ball makin' mother. And that's ok. I can see where it might be confusing. In all honesty, getting this picture taken required an act of God.

Reality at my house: The top half of the tree is decorated. Only the top half. Pumpkins are still on the porch (nothing says 'Feliz Navidad' quite like a few rotting gourds). The elf, which should now be on the shelf, is somewhere in the attic, probably getting shit on by mice at this very moment. And, my Christmas cards are duct taped to the wall (we don't fool around in this house).

So while in Bedford Falls, it might be A Wonderful Life, at the Engler household, it's more like Fear Factor.

Merry Christmas, anyway!

Merry Christmas

For those of you who might not be aware, autism is the gift that keeps on givin' the whole year. Ya know, kinda like the Jelly of the Month Club, except the jelly only comes EVERY 30 DAYS OR SO.

May your Christmas be filled with stool collections and DMPS suppositories.

Oh, He's Just Yakkin' on a Bone...

Let's talk about food aversions. I happen to be at a point in my life that there really are no food sensitivities. You know, with the whole pickles-and-ice-cream pregnancy cravings. My son is a different story.

Before autism, he was a surprisingly good eater. All of that changed once he got his one year shots. Along came autism, and with it came temper tantrums, food aversions, and a depletion of our savings account (thanks, Big Pharma!). Now, it's a good day if he doesn't purge miniature pieces of turkey all over our fine Dollar Store china.

A typical dinner scenario: Groundhog Day meets Christmas Vacation (the dog hacking scene). We hear him yak a few times, everybody stops to see what's going to happen (should we really be surprised?), and lo and behold, he "gets it up" and everybody carries on with their business.

I've bribed, threatened, swatted, and cried over it. He's improving, but it's a sloooooow journey. My advice for you is to have patience, start small, and wear protective head gear. Chances are, you're gonna need it, and nothing says 'sexy' quite like a hazmat suit.

Disclaimer: This story offers no hope for parents of picky autistic children. It just proves that autism sucks.

Martha Stewart Says, "Try Harder"

If I was a horse, someone would've already put me out of my misery. My health is horrible and just getting worse, my kid is sick, etc., etc. I have a lot of tolerance for people's complaints and enjoy back and forth pity-party commentary except when it involves repeated excuses for your child.

I have a lot of cop-outs for myself, but I have nay a word to say about why I *can't* do for my son, because all that is is just cringeworthy.

It happens occasionally when I talk to an autism mom. I go over my mental powerpoints of suggestion, only to be met with melancholy excuses about how the diet is 'too hard' or how their child 'won't take medicine' or how they're 'afraid to give their kid a B12 shot'. Because honestly, in 15 years, when their child is a 200 pound, 6 foot tall man who's still throwing tantrums in Target, they might just wish they'd done more when he was young.

Now I know that some kids don't get better with biomed. I know of people who have tried it ALL and nothing has helped. But, at the end of the day, those parents can rest easy in the fact that they did all they could to help their child.

No excuses. No more regrets. Do what you can to treat your child's autism.

The End.

I See Something Shiny

There's nothing quite like finding a black widow spider nestled next to your garbanzo beans. This occurrence sent me into a crazed OCD cleaning fit. I drifted off into the pantry, armed with a vacuum cleaner and cheap ass paper towel. I spent much too long moving packages like I was waiting for a ninja to jump out. Luckily, no ninjas--or black widows--made their appearance.

Continuing my quest for black widow spiders (I was itching at this point, kinda like you do after you hear someone has lice), I moved on to the kitchen corners. Somewhere along the way--I'm not sure where--I forgot my pinto beans on the stove. My pot boileth over. (Off topic: we really like beans in this house, which might explain our lack of visitors).

I said all that to say all this. I am easily distracted. Today's initial plan: work from home. Today's actual accomplishment: the smell of burnt beans permeating throughout my kitchen.