Saturday, December 6, 2014

Good God, It’s a Twizzler

I’ve got a non-compliant toddler in the house.  Not sure where she gets that from.  It’s probably my fault.  I’m tired.  All the time.  She’s very smart.  I’m very lazy. 

I decide bribing her with little pieces of twizzlers is the way to go for potty training success.  I make the blunder of showing them to her before she’s even ON the potty, which is a huge mistake if there ever was one.  This leads to a holy come apart that can only be compared to an extended version of Clark Griswold’s fit on Christmas Vacation.  Well, minus the foul mouth (for the most part). 

You have to realize, I haven’t ingested a single drop of coffee at this point.  I’m staggering around, not sure whether to diaper the dogs or let the baby out.  In the heat of the moment, as I’m frantically trying to get this child to calm down, I choke on my own saliva.  A coughing attack commences.  So now I’m barely awake and barking like I’ve got emphysema. 

It just goes on and on.  About an hour later, I’m in tears (either from the pneumonia trying to set in or the frightening realization this child is exactly like me).  I throw the twizzlers her way and hide in the corner in hopes that she will un-Hulk herself once the sugar high begins.

I try explaining that an essential oil is probably in her future if she eats the designated potty twizzlers.  It’s like she didn’t even care.  The nerve.  What did this teach me, you ask?  Besides the fact that I have a freakish amount of saliva, next time, I’ll try skittles.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Tastes Like Chicken

It’s always a joy traveling with me.  Everybody loves it.  My escapades usually involve the Buick Beast:  barreling down the road, coffee stains all over the floor, randomly dehydrated French fries strewn about.  Just the usual.  On my last outing, I left the swagger wagon at the house and took the dog in another vehicle.  About midway through the visit (that cost about half of what I sold my last car for), I remembered I had a frozen treat left in the trunk of the Beast.

I called my babysitter, who gets paid waaaaaay too little, and began what I consider to be the most unexpected conversation I never thought I’d have.  The gist of my side sounded something like this, “Hey, can you get the frozen deer meat out of the van?  It’s in a garbage bag.  Uh huh.  Yes.  Oh, and there may be a squirrel in there, too.”

In what lifetime did I think I’d have a saran-wrapped frozen squirrel in the back of my mini-van which I swore I’d never drive?  Ummm, never. 

It just goes to show ya, you may plan for one thing, but what you get may taste juuuuust like chicken.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

I'd Rather Have An Outdoor Closet

John 8:7  “When they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”

I realize that my “closet” is more like a yard sale rack of clothes, hanging out in my front yard for all skeletons to be seen.  Some people’s are tucked discreetly away, with a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door. 

The good thing about having my skeletons out is that I have nothing to hide.  But, as with autism or anything else in life, remember that no one is sinless.  When you feel that you're in a position to judge others, let me remind you that you are NOT. 

The End.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Camp! Camp!

I'm happy to report that I didn't manage to run off my previous guest blogger, Jeff Stimpson.  Yet.  While my children have spent a great majority of their summer circling their prey (picture me laying on the couch), there's not much more to report.  I'll continue laying on the couch while Jeff does my work for a short while.  Take it away, Jeff...

 ~Autism's (Exhausted-Taking-a-Hiatus) Bitch  

My wife, Jill, and I think it’s time for our son Alex (13, PDD-NOS and solidly on the spectrum) to spend more time away from his parents because A) he seems to want, as best as we can tell, to spend more time away from his parents; and B) We want him to spend more time away from his parents. Other efforts aside, we recently again sent Alex away to a sweet week of overnight summer camp.

“Camp? Camp?” he started saying days ago. This was Alex’s fifth year at his overnight camp, single weeks we’ve come to treasure for the unbroken sleep and the silent lack of Elmo. And all signs were positive at Alex’s bus pick-up. He sat and waited with Jill while I stood in the endless line; he waited in line without bolting and said “piano” as the counselor strapped on the ID bracelet.  

“Do you have a piano at camp?” I asked her.

“We do!” she said.

He said good-bye to Jill; he waited for me at the bus door. “Daddy. Camp,” he said, kissing my arm. Then he vanished inside.

“Camp? Daddy? Mommy?” he said during his first phone call with us. It was much like a real phone talk. “How are you, Alex? Are you having a good time?” Hard to know if he was or he wasn’t.

A few nights later we call to speak to the young woman who’s "shadowing" him. “He’s having a pretty good time,” she says. “We’ve taken walks down to the lake. He’s ridden horses, and today he said ‘Horse! Horse!’ He likes to run, but I keep after him. He’s been saying, ‘Daddy? Mommy? Bus...”

He’ll see that bus soon, and when he returns we’ll hear the Elmo and wake in the middle of the night or at dawn, and again we’ll fight the pressure to make any decision that sends him away for much, much longer.

Jeff Stimpson 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, 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.”

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Are You There, Karma?

Yesterday, I managed to burn my GFCF peanut butter fudge.  How does one burn peanut butter and casein free margarine, you ask?  It got out of control.  Or maybe I got out of control.  Who knows.

Next, in a second attempt to ignite my microwave oven (subconsciously, because those things are baaaad for you), butter provoked quite a large fire in my frying pan.  Butter.  Yes.

I'm stuffing my face at a restaurant yesterday (thanks to the fact that I should stay far, far away from a kitchen), and then discover the battery on my ghetto sled is dead.  Fabulous.

Now, this has all happened within the last 24 hours.  By the time I got on the phone with an unnamed satellite TV company this morning, I was feeling a little frazzled.  Understandably so, because I was better able to comprehend "Who's On First" than the operator I so unfortunately had to speak with.  For the love of carbs, seriously, is it really that hard?  "Dan" from the Texas call center (clearly from a place I can only infer might *really* be Indonesia), says otherwise.

The good news?  With the lemons I've received as of late, I now have lemonade.  Bitter.  Strong.  But lemonade, nonetheless.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

I'm a little forgetful.  I'm pretty sure that's my right as a single mother of a child with autism, a terrible "two-ddler," and an infant.  But today, I realized how bad it really is.  I looked for five minutes for my purse...which was on my shoulder.  I sniffed around for my cell phone for so long I finally had to call it from the house.  Found it.  It was on the DVD player, along with half a lemon and a cup of curdled goat's milk. 

THAT'S when you know it's time to start taking gingko.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Roses Are Red, Violets Are Blue, This Card's From Hayden, So F#%$ You

As a parent of a child with autism, I sometimes wonder what Hayden will grow up to become. Perhaps he'll recover and go on to find a cure for autism. Maybe he'll become a professor since he's good at bossing people around.

Tonight I learned what he's NOT going to become. I can say with great certainty that Hayden does not have a future as a Hallmark card designer. You see, his grandfather had surgery yesterday. As Hayden spoke with his father about the situation, I heard him say, "I talked to Pappow today. I told him, 'Don't worry, you're sick.'"

Concern, yes. A way with words, no. Anyway, get well soon, Pappow.