Let's Go Krogering

**The above music is really necessary to get the full effect of the evening's events. Please proceed with your volume at an ungodly level.

Being an autism mom, I'm typically on the lookout for situations that could prove to be "sticky," shall we say. I let my guard down; sometimes I do that when Brock is around. I assume he'll keep Hayden from mortally embarrassing us.

Last night, we went shopping. I actually saw this one coming, but there was relatively NOTHING that I could do to avoid the situation. A lady weighing approximately 500 pounds was shopping in one of those motorized wheelchairs. Both of my kids were intrigued. Ayla was leaned back, staring a hole in her, motionless of course. About that time, before I could distract Motor-mouth (let me add that Motor-mouth is every autism mom's dream nickname for their child...speech is such an issue), Hayden looked at her and said, "Oh yeeeeeeah." I wheeled away as fast as I could, dragging my loud-mouthed child behind me.

But, Hayden didn't stop there. He felt a strong desire to tell the entire store upon our departure, "Thanks for shopping at Wal-Mart." I ignored that one, too.

What I did NOT ignore happened later in the evening. Some friends came over to visit, and Hayden walked up to one of them (more than once), pointed to the man's head, and said, "You don't have any hair."

What can I say? At least he's animated.

We Had a Little Accident

I've been threatening to rob the pizza delivery person for years. That tells you a little about my love/hate relationship with food. Well, last night, the pizza came to me. I was minding my own business, half naked in my bathroom, preparing for an exciting (yeah right) evening out. All of the sudden, Brock burst into my Calgon moment and said someone had wrecked in our yard.

I donned my ever-fashionable stained terrycloth robe and went to see what the ruckus was about. There in my front yard, like a gift from God, was a pizza delivery woman. She ran right through our neighborhood sign and practically into my dining room. Talk about curbside service.

The good news is that we got all the pizza we'll ever want or need. I spent a good deal of time rummaging through the boxes, eating it with my hands. Fuck the plate. I was all over that shit like a fat man in spandex.

What's worse than my pizza binge is the fact that another delivery guy came in and witnessed this atrocious event. With me in my robe. Carrying a baby on my hip. While my autistic six-year-old circled around me pushing a shopping cart and singing about the weather.

I cannot make this shit up.