Heaven on Earth

If you want to know what is HOT, HOT, HOT this season for Reluctant Astronaut mothers, it's Sonic.  No disrespect to our nation's First Lady* whose mission is healthy eating, but that place is the bomb.  Not only is it a place to get food that children will willingly consume, we don't have to get out of the car.  There's no cajoling a certain person to get out of the vehicle or worrying about matching shoes or fussing over wearing pants. It is absolute bliss.  Keep your fancy filet mignon.  Give me a burger and a roller blading car hop.

It is a bit of a trek for us to get there but that makes it more of a "spending quality time together" event.  These events usually begin by me turning to my husband and declaring, "I cannot spend another moment cooped up in this house with these people.  We need to get them out of my house."  And so with this proclamation, our adventure begins.

Highway travel is involved and this is good as the R.A. does enjoy a pleasant trip down the interstate.  As we proceed he yowls joyfully in the backseat, hands flapping for Britain.  I think the R.A. associates the highway with going some place he likes and/or we're finally driving him down to NASA to be launched back into space.  Hope springs eternal.

Another Sonic selling point is location, location, location.  Sonic is located right next door to McD's!  It's not possible to get better than that.  Ok, the only thing better would be to have a McD's located inside the Sonic. But hey, I'm not going to complain. When we first started going to Sonic we would pull into McD's and then go to Sonic but recently we have streamlined the process.  We go straight to Sonic and place our order.  While we wait for our food, my husband hoofs it next door to McD's and picks up the requisite french fries and chicken nuggets, and ketchup (although to be sure we also ask for extra ketchup at Sonic too.  One can never be too careful about such important things.)

The R.A. enjoys Sonic.  He sits in his car seat and takes in all the cars and people coming and going.  The R.A. is so busy trying to not miss a thing that he actually looks like he is attempting to do the Twist while strapped into his seat - twisting first to the right and then the left and back again.  As the R.A. is totally preoccupied he rarely eats any of the McD meal his father has dashed across two busy parking lots (mostly occupied by teenage drivers - yikers!) to get for him.  Just because, however, the R.A. does not eat the meal does not mean we are excused from getting it.  We have only made that mistake a handful of times before we learned better.  The McD meal is not really about eating.  It's more part of the entire Sonic procedure.  Remove the McD fries and nuggets and we've upset the entire system.  Trust me - we don't want that.

What the R.A. will eat when we are at Sonic are Sonic apple slices.  Witnessing the consumption of apple slices while he rotates around his car seat is a sight to see.  It's amazing any of the apple actually makes it into his mouth.  But it does.  Initially we gave the R.A. the mandatory "see we are trying to encourage kids to eat healthy by giving them these stupid" apple slices that came with his sister's Sonic kids' meal.  Of course, the minute we did that my daughter, up to then an avid fruitarian**, declared she loved the apple slices and felt inclined not to share with her brother.  Now we order a separate pack of slices for the R.A. and I'll warrant we are the only Sonic customers to ever do so because every time we do there's this pause from the person taking our order and then he/she will ask incredulously, "You want a separate side order of apple slices?"

Another thing I love about Sonic is that it is currently the only time I ever get to eat a moderately warm meal while in the presence of my entire family.  I confess that despite being a parent for going on 9 years, I still haven't adjusted to cold french fries.  I know, it's the prima dona in me.

Oddly enough (like most things about us) we tend to go to Sonic more in the colder weather than warm.  This is primarily because once the cold weather hits, the number of places I can take these people becomes limited.  It's not unusual to see us bundled up and hunched over our burgers (and apple slices) in a chilly and fog steamed up car in the middle of winter - cold yet content.  As long as there is a Sonic around I will not have a winter of discontent.  Or at least I'll get a couple hours worth of a break.  I'll take it!

*Ok, maybe I won't get high marks in the  Mother of the Year contest, Nutrition category but allow me to submit that if either of the First Lady's daughters were like the R.A. and had his food issues she would drive that kid personally to McD's, Secret Service be damned!
**A fruitarian is someone who does not eat fruit based on moral and ethical reasons, citing it cruel to force children to consume anything vaguely nutritious.  The average age of a fruitarian is eight.

Happy Yowlidays

A Christmas morning quiz for you:

The R.A. woke up obscenely early this morning because:
A. He is excited about Christmas.
B. He knew we were up late last night and thought it would be fun to torment us.
C. He wanted to be ready for the invasion which is finally underway.

The correct answer is B although because it is not even 7 AM, the jury's still out on C.

Yes, the R.A. was ready and rearing to go quite early this morning.  We were woken to the gentle dulcet tones of his screechy caterwauling accompanied by the melodic kicking of his door.  It was as if he were announcing, "Awaken!  It is the birthday of Baby Jesus! (dammit!)"

My husband finally stumbled out of bed and released the R.A. from his room when it was apparent that the R.A. wasn't going to go back to sleep and we were afraid he was going to kick the door knob off his door.  The R.A. ran into our bedroom letting out a yowl that could awaken the dead, much as any cherubic Christmas herald would.

Usually when the R.A. is finally liberated from his room and treks to ours, I am out of bed.  This morning I was not and the R.A. found this novel.  He illustrated his interest by standing at the foot of the bed squeezing my feet and legs and occasionally chinning my feet.  My husband says most mornings the R.A. does that to him.  My husband has also theorized that the R.A. is looking for pressure points in an attempt to squeeze and paralyze the victim and/or elicit a death.  Thankfully the R.A. is not that knowledgeable regarding the human body and at this time is not capable of such a thing.

Next the R.A. spent time alternating between sitting on my legs and between my legs.  My husband and I tried to encourage him to lay down between us but to no avail.  When the R.A. did briefly have a lie down it was at the bottom of the bed, across my legs and with his head slightly hanging off the mattress.  Comfy - for him and me!

The R.A. did acquiesce for a short time and joined us at the top end of the bed.  He climbed between us and then proceeded to jump up and down while positioned between our heads.  It is surely a testament to how tired we are that we didn't stop him despite the obvious danger that he could misstep (or rather misjump) and land on one or both of our heads.  We were willing to risk it.

Fortunately the R.A. quickly tired of this.  Unfortunately he then bolted downstairs with his father in hot pursuit.  Further unfortunately the R.A. saw that the living room was full of wrapped gifts.  Between his recent birthday and a Christmas Eve party at his aunt's, the R.A. discovered the joys of unwrapping gifts.  He has found a real affinity for the activity.  On his birthday it was all about the fun of the act of unwrapping and not really noticing the actual gift.  On Christmas Eve it was like a bulb went off in his little alien brain - Wait a minute!  Sometimes after I rip the paper off it exposes something I am interested in!  This is fabulous!  More! More! I don't think I have received enough Thomas themed items!

So when the R.A. descended to the first floor and took in the gifts, my husband then had to convince him not to charge the packages (or his uncle who was sleeping on the couch, having migrated downstairs at the height of the R.A.'s one man early Christmas morning percussion extraveganza).  As you can imagine, this endeavor went extremely well and the R.A. was quite reasonable about it.  Not.

Yowling furiously, the R.A.returned to our room.  Now I must also mention that my husband and I have a temporary roommate - my daughter.  She has been relegated to a corner of our room while her uncle bunks in her bedroom until he heads out to this new job in California.  I am not digressing.  This is important to the story.  Back to the R.A. yowling in indignation - Yowl! Yowl! YOWL!  He then proceeds to run to his sister's bed and hoist himself up on to her frame at the foot of the bed on which he teeters precariously while flapping for Britain and caterwauling.  His sister pokes her head up from the covers and mumbles, "I can't sleep." and then tucks herself back in.  Clearly this is not her first rodeo with this sort of thing.

Tiring of this activity, the R.A. looks for something else to amuse himself.  He grabs the TV clicker and points it at my husband and me in the bed.  I don't think he's indicating he wants to watch TV but rather attempting to use the clicker to vaporize us.  Realizing it doesn't work that way he thrusts the clicker at my husband demanding "YOU!" meaning, "YOU turn on the TV as I want to watch it because you dopes are tedious."
Of course my husband lollygagged during this task and the R.A., deeply annoyed, rigorously barked at him, interspersing Yowlish with "Backyahdibans."

Once his dad finally got the TV situation under control, it was time to eat.  The R.A. demanded juice and Wheat Thins (the traditional Christmas breakfast.)  He munched contentedly while jumping up and down on his trampoline.  Occasionally the R.A. took a jumping break, moving his yoga ball on top of the trampoline, balancing himself on top of the ball while eating crackers while viewing the TV, a mere 3 inches from the screen.

Oddly enough, I could not get back to sleep so decided to tackle the blog, while still sitting in bed.  I have been diligently working, barely pausing when the R.A. has taken trampoline jumping breaks to jump up and down in the bed or when my daughter and I got into a rather heated discussion over her insistence on using my comb and brush to tame her dolls' hair tangles.

Currently my husband and the R.A. are involved in their own animated discussion.  The R.A. is hitting his father with the clicker and demanding, "Backyahdibans!" and my husband is responding (sounding more than a little desperate), "I told you, pirate Backyardigans is not available on DEMAND."

Ah, family togetherness.  Isn't that what the Yowlidays are all about?

Happy Yowlidays, Reluctant Astronaut!

P.S. When it finally was time to go downstairs to open the gifts, the R.A. did not want to go.  When we said it was time, he stood on his yoga ball and declared firmly, "No!"  Eventually we did get him sort of downstairs.  Initially he refused to come into the living room, choosing instead to dangle off the stair banister while yowling loudly.  I think the R.A. may have been engaging in some weird alien caroling.  At times he was so loud we couldn't hear each other talk.

Anniversary Musings

178th Day of Skdlamvopekdmv a*m<>12pmaiod in the 3678th Year of Our Kitchen God

Annual Report to HQ

It has been 6 years since my assignment to this Kitchen God-forsaken planet.  I know my superiors hoped that in time I would adapt to Earth but honestly it is such a backward place that adaptation is impossible.  The only way I could do that is if I were to have a lobotomy - not that I am suggesting such a thing.  In that case I would still be several IQ points higher than my caregivers.

My superiors have requested that I review my accomplishments.  Unfortunately, as these Earthlings are such extremely lower life forms, getting anything done is a long, arduous and often thankless process, rarely yielding the desired results.  And they wonder at my frustrated bouts of self-hitting!  Some days my frustration is so pronounced I swear I'm going to implode.

After much thought here is what I have come up with:

• Despite my Herculean efforts at curbing this lazy habit, my caregivers still indulge in sleep, although granted, my efforts have severely cut down the hours they spend lolling around in bed.  The Daddy-Guy is crying less when his sleep is interrupted.  Thankfully he is starting to "man up."
• Mommy-Girl's greatest adversary is her stubbornness and insisting on access to electric lighting. I admit that since stepping up my training efforts the Mommy-Girl is slowly and painfully improving. Apparently she is also starting to "man up."  Her ability to dress in complete darkness is getting better and resulting in some very creative ensembles including mismatched footwear.  I have also made a point of never allowing her access to electric lights.  Now, even if she has a door closed (and locked) I will enter the room, shut off the lights, and then exit the room. I have learned that yowling in indignation prior to entering the room alerts her to my presence and she is then able to block the door with her body.  Now I move stealthily, like a jz%^vmm.*
• I can vomit at will.

Grudgingly I am starting to learn Earth language.  Mostly it is due to the efforts of the officers at my new Institute of Earth Acculturation.  Initially, as they are all quite aesthetically pleasing, I thought they would coo over my chubby cheeks and freckles and we would spend our days coloring and eating gummies, much like my last Institute of Earth Acculturation.  Much to my horror I discovered this not to be the case.  They monitor me constantly, demanding I do things as they direct, presenting awful consequences if I do not, such as ignoring my outbursts, making me sit in the "Chair of Solitude," and denying me access to crayons and Thomas toys. Those ladies won't get off my back. What is up with that?  As you can see, when faced with such horrific consequences and in the name of self preservation, I am slowly starting to utilize the primitive Earth language.  One plus is that the "Clueless Wonders" (a.k.a. my caregivers), finally understand most of my demands.

As it is my Earth birthday, the Dimwitted Duo attempted to engage me in Earthling birthday customs.  One strange practice is lighting a cake on fire and presenting it to the birthday person.  At first I did not understand and thought they were going to torture me with it so I ran like hell.  Adding to the torment they then started singing.  When they finally realized that I was not going near the flaming cake, Mommy-Girl blew out the candle.  Then they repeatedly tried to get me to eat the cake.  Not only did they try but Nana-Lady and that Pi-Person did as well.  This went on for at least a half hour before they accepted that I would not eat their damn cake.  I did hear the Mommy-Girl tell them to stop because I would only throw it on the floor.  I admit I was somewhat impressed that she understood how the situation would play out.  Historically they are not so swift on the uptake.  Well, it's only taken 6 years.

So another year of my mission begins.  Kitchen God only knows what is in store.  I pray He gives me strength to endure.

*a very stealthy creature on the home planet.

Good Help is Hard to Find

Surprisingly enough, it is somewhat difficult to find a sitter for the R.A.  For some reason we are not inundated with people offering to babysit him.  People do offer to babysit his sister which causes me to say, "You know she's not an only child, right?"

So I was ecstatic when someone, under his own volition, (and also not under the influence of mind altering pharmaceuticals, well not that I'm aware of) offered to babysit the R.A.  I'm sure the potential sitter only made the remark to be polite but tough tofu - he put it out there and you can bet your sweet bippy I'm taking complete advantage of it. 

Mind you, we can't leave the R.A. with your run of the mill 9th grader.  Only the Kitchen God knows what would be the end result of that.  I'm picturing coming home to find the sitter bound and gagged with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and the R.A. sitting in his father's sock drawer covered with melted popsicles and Pringle crumbs and cradling our set of steak knives in one hand while waving the "Stick of Infamy" in his other.  Of course that's my sunny and upbeat version of what would transpire.

No, our sitter is actually a trained professional - in mixed martial arts.  O.K., unfortunately we don't know someone like that.  The real sitter is a special education teacher with extensive experience with ASD kids including the R.A. himself.  It is pretty amazing that despite knowing the R.A., Mett* still offered to babysit him (the more I think about it the more inclined I am to consider that perhaps pharmaceuticals were involved...oh  well, beggars can't be choosers.)

Why do we need a sitter?  So that we can do dinner and a movie?  Attend the theater?  Enjoy a pleasant afternoon at CVS, shopping without worrying about someone jumping from the moving shopping cart to land spread eagle on top of the gigantic bag of Dum Dums conveniently located on the very bottom of the store shelf?  The reason we need a sitter is that this coming Saturday my husband and I are conducting a "Sensory Santa" at my place of employment. It is basically Santa for the sensory sensitive set - lights low, carols playing softly, and a Santa who is reserved and soft spoken - think Gary Cooper with a beard.  Ironically, we are unable to bring the R.A. as we can't run the program and watch the R.A.  Thus the need for a sitter.

The following is based on an e-mail I sent to Mett about the babysitting gig:

Dear Mett:

By the way, if you want to bring the R.A. to the Sensory Santa program at the library, you can.  It’s 9:30 – 11 AM and is a drop in and drop by program for ASD and sensory kids to visit with Santa.  I leave it up to you.  If you do decide to drop by, here are some helpful tips:

1.       Hold the R.A.'s  hand firmly as you enter the library as he will attempt to bolt from you.  When holding his hand give him wide berth as he will attempt to head butt you in your man bits as he struggles to free himself.  Don’t forget that the boy fights dirty.

2.       Although the activity is in the meeting room he will prefer to be in our audio-visual area where he will engage in stacking Thomas videos into towers and subsequently become infuriated when you intervene.  There will be aggressive chinning involved, primarily from the R.A.  but you might end up engaging as well depending on how frustrated you are.  Yeah, I’m going to go with you will be chinning too.

3.       He will also attempt to get into my office as we keep a stash of Dum Dum lollipops in there.  We have discovered that not only are Dum Dums the lolly of choice of Reluctant Astronauts but also middle schoolers on boring library tours.

4.       Do keep in mind this is my place of employment so try not to shame me too much.  Also, don’t take it personally if I act as if you and I (and the R.A.) have never met before.

  

So, I anticipate a big, fat, fun, and fabulous Saturday!

Yowlingly yours,

the R.A.'s mom

P.S. You may also want to know that although the school is now working off of the R.A.'s  new IEP which is firmly addressing the chinning issue, the chinning has blossomed.  Not only does he chin arms but now feet (his and other people's.)  If you have steel toed shoes it would be recommended to wear them.  Oh, and it does smart a bit when he chins an ankle – FYI.  You know what?  You might want to wear those fishing boots that go up to your hips.

*The name has been changed to protect the innocent and I don't want to blow it with the only person on the entire planet who offers to babysit the R.A. I am also required by legal action to do so.

A Regular Blabber Mouth

In spite of not being much of a talker (well, at least not using a recognisable Earth dialect) the R.A. is very skilled at the art of communication.  My family is also becoming more fluent in "Yowlish:"

The R.A.: "Yowl! Yowl, Yowl, Yowl, Yowlllll!!!"
His Father: "I told you I can't put on the Backyardigans' pirate episode because 'On Demand' is not working and it doesn't matter how many times you whack me in the head with the clicker.  The thing isn't working."

The R.A. "Yowl! Yowl! Yowl! Yoweeeelllll!"
Me: "I know you don't want me to go near my closet but I can't go to work without my pants.  Again."

The R.A. does have some Earth language communication skills including a modest English vocabulary.  He just chooses not to use any of those skills voluntarily.  The R.A. uses English only when forced and then only done under extreme duress and with a dash of insolence and a smidge of resentment.  It's probably something along the lines of refusing to use the language of his lower life form and excruciatingly dimwitted captors.

When the R.A. does speak English, he is a "lazy talker."  The beginnings of his words and phrases come out clear and strong but by about half way through it peeters off.  For example, "Happy Thanksgiving" sounds like "Happy Gib....."  I think the R.A. has a very low regard for English (and Earth culture in general) and that by half way through whatever he's saying he's like, "Oh, hell.  Who cares? I don't.  Whatever."  It's as if he can't be bothered taking on such a Barbarian tongue.  The R.A. obviously feels it isn't worth the trouble to learn the language as once the invasion comes we will all be forced to speak Yowlish.  Thankfully my family already possesses a good fundamental understanding of Yowlish.  Unfortunately, although we comprehend it, we can't speak it.  I'm sure that will be o.k. as our new masters will no doubt attribute our inability to speak Yowlish to our inferior Earth intelligence.

There are actually many instances of children on the autism spectrum with extremely limited communication skills, even those who don't speak at all, to one day - BOOM! - speak in complete sentences.  It would not surprise me if one day the R.A. did this.  It also would not surprise me that he would be speaking in Maori  - just to be defiant.  It would be yet another way for him to torment us as it's not like we are in the epicenter of indiginous New Zealand culture.  He would also probably say things like "Epo e tiy tiy aye!"*  which would translate into, "Suck it, lower life forms!"

*Not actual Maori

For whom the barf tolls

" I'm sure we will pay for it tonight.  It's all part of the R.A.'s dastardly plan." 

And so I closed my last blog posting.  It only shows how well acquainted I am with the R.A's M.O.  He attacked that very night.  The attack was swift yet messy.

Saturday night, after the parade, my husband and I had plans to meet friends for dinner.  This is an extremely rare occurrence.  I think there are more frequent occurrences of solar eclipses than occurrences of us going out socially.  Due to childcare issues (read - nobody will babysit the R.A.) we usually head out at 8 PM or later.  That way the R.A. is confined to his room/cell and therefore unable to terrorize his grandmother - too much.

That night I was all dressed, primarily in "grown up" clothes and was picking up the day's wreckage from my living room while waiting for my husband to get the R.A. settled in his room.  We were literally minutes from our short yet sweet furlough.  Suddenly I heard my husband bellow my name.  I sprinted up to the second floor to find my husband running from the R.A.'s room while holding a vomit covered R.A. out and away from his body.  He zoomed into the bathroom and deposited the R.A. into the bathtub where the R.A. proceeded to spew while simultaneously smiling. 

While the R.A. was entertaining himself by continuously throwing up all over the bathtub, my husband  cleaned his room and I changed out of my finery and into more barf appropriate clothing.  Once we were satisfied that the R.A. had indeed cleared his stomach of all semi-digested food items, my husband and I peeled his (R.A.'s) vomit-tastic clothes off him and then excavated the tub.  It's a testament to just how often the R.A. hurls that neither my husband or I were wigged out in the least by the sight or amount of vomit.  Once the tub was clean and sanitized, I told my husband to clean up and head out to the dinner and that I would stay with the R.A.  We did briefly consider cleaning up the R.A., putting him back to bed and heading out to dinner, only a few minutes behind schedule (we are that used to the "Barf-ah-pah-loozah" Extravaganza that we have a very efficient clean up system going on.)  I know it sounds uncaring to leave a "sick" child but despite the numerous occasions of the R.A. throwing up it rarely means he's sick.  On paper it would appear he has a sensitive gag reflex.  My husband and I don't buy it.  The R.A. is capable of vomiting on demand thus using it as a Weapon of Mass Destruction.  We were 95% sure it was a "Vomit of Vengeance."  But then we figured our friends would just judge us harshly as bad parents so we decided one of us should stay home.  I was always lousy at "Paper, Rock, Scissors."

So my husband headed out and I bathed the R.A. who was cheerful and positively pleased with himself.   If he was capable of human speech I'm sure he would have said, "Ha! Ha!"  Sometimes I am very happy he can't speak English.

Of course the R.A.  did not barf once for the rest of the evening.  He spent the night feasting on Pringles and white grape juice and working on battle plans i.e. lining up puzzle pieces in random formation on the living room floor.  He was smiling and laughing - an absolute delight.  The little stinker.

Holiday Season Kick Off (or Eff Up)

Today was our town's annual Santa Parade and we decided to go.  We had no idea how the undertaking would turn out but sometimes we just shrug and say, "What the hell.  We'll give it a go" - much to the never ending delight of the other people attending any event we show up at.

We began this afternoon's big adventure by having lunch at a restaurant on the parade route.  As we are not that devil-may-care we did select one of four restaurants the R.A. will willingly patronize.  It is also one of only two places at which the R.A. will eat the fries so another bonus was no extra McD stop.

The dining experience began after the requisite 15 minute arranging and organizing ourselves at the table.  It commences with my husband and me assessing the best place to sit the R.A. so he has limited contact with other diners (Note: Corner booths - good.  Round tables in the middle of rooms -  bad.) Next we have to get our daughter settled which means making her move from her original seat.  (This is a perpetual point of mystery for us.  She has been dining out with the whole family for going on 6 years now but still doesn't understand the logistics portion of the endeavor.)  Often my daughter is resistant to being moved which means my husband and I have to use that fake "we're in public or we'd just bellow" jolly voice to cajole her to move while hissing under our breath.  Meanwhile the poor waitress is standing there with menus and place settings waiting for us to get our sh*@ together.  I always give the waitstaff a lot of credit.  I'm sure they are far from thrilled to get us in their section to begin with and then we're a problem before we've even ordered.

Finally we are seated.  I next throw a possible monkey wrench into the works as I have to use the ladies room. Immediately. Even before we've ordered.  My husband looks apprehensive at the prospect of bucking protocol (and being left alone at the table with the Dog and Pony show) but knows better than to protest.  Unfortunately there is a wait at the ladies room.  The waitress, who knows us well enough to want to get us the hell out of the restaurant as soon as possible, has actually stopped by the ladies room line to double check my drink order.  She too is interested in just getting our dining experience over with.

Usually (like there is such a thing with someone on the spectrum) the R.A. likes this restaurant.  Today he is "having a moment" and I return to the table to find him in tears (the R.A. not my husband although my husband did have that bright eyed look one gets prior to crying - a look we both get a lot.)  My husband did not know what the R.A.'s deal was.  He said the R.A. started as soon as I left the table.  This puzzled us as we did follow the most important part of the dining out procedure in that we ordered the R.A. his french fries before we even sat down to ensure that the fries would come as soon as humanly possible*.  (Ordering this way also means that any time any waitstaff or restaurant personnel comes near our table the R.A. barks, "Feh fye! Feh fye!" yet another reason we are big favorites of waitstaff.)  My husband immediately started crafting an escape plan, getting a little panicky because due to the parade, all surrounding roads were closed.  I myself was too tired and hungry after an action packed morning spent doing the "Turkey Pokey" and tip-toeing around the turkey to get worked up.  Fortunately the R.A. did calm down once the fries came and happily occupied himself by eating and periodically demanding "Kehsup! Kehsup!"

The meal finished without significant catastrophes (no one more surprised by this than my husband and myself) so we headed out for the parade.  Unfortunately it was a bit crowded which meant we would have to subject other parade goers to us.  We squeezed into a spot and waited, not so much for the parade but rather for how the R.A. was going to react to the parade.

Initially the R.A. looked with great interest at the people around him.  It was almost as if he understood the sense of anticipation and he wore an expression that said, "Now what?"

Once the parade started, his expression became, "What's this about?"  He would look at the parade and then look around at the people watching.  If the R.A. could talk I think he would have leaned over toward the nearest person and said, "I don't get it.  Why are we doing this and why are they doing that?"

But then, because the R.A. is a slave to the rhythm, the beat of the marching bands got him.  He spent the rest of the parade rocking from side to side in perfect rhythm to whatever song was being played as the parade passed.  His expression now became one of delight and he would look at my husband and me with huge toothless grins.

The only dicey part of the parade involved parade people handing out candy.  Whenever one would approach us it would look like the R.A. was putting his hand out to take the candy when actually he was putting his hand out to repel the candy (unless it was a lolly pop in which instance he would grab the lolly and make like he was going to tackle the candy giver for more.)  Sometimes the candy giver thought the R.A. was taking the candy and let go of the candy at which point the R.A. would smack the candy to the ground while wearing an expression that clearly said he was offended by such a revolting offering.  The candy giver would look puzzled and my husband and I would hastily explain that the R.A. had autism.  Adult candy givers sort of got it but child candy givers did not.  Saying the R.A. had autism had about as much meaning as if we'd said he'd had egg beaters - ???

Smacked candy delighted my daughter who would scramble down after it, retrieving it with the possessed smile of a child who rarely got candy.  "It's wrapped so it's OK if it was in the street" she explained to me.

Most of the time my husband had a firm grip on the R.A.'s hood as occasionally he made like he was going to bolt into the parade.  We had visions of him knocking over a section of a marching band and the entire brass section going down like dominoes ultimately halting the parade. I'm sure that would endear us to the town - "Awful, Incompetent, and Harrowingly Stupid Parents Unable to Control Small Child.  Ruin Parade.  Run Out of Town By Angry Mob Led By Fed Up Waitstaff."

All in all it was a really good afternoon.  I'm sure we will pay for it tonight.  It's all part of the R.A.'s dastardly plan.

*If my husband and I were more organized we would have called the fry order in before we even got to the restaurant to really make sure the fries arrived in that dictator friendly fashion.  Unfortunately we are not that organized and commend ourselves that the children have at least left the house wearing shoes - maybe not matching pairs and perhaps not even their own shoes but feet shod none the less.  If you knew how chaotic our house was you too would be proud of us for this accomplishment

Not Enough Hours in the Day

Latest entry in the R.A.'s Diary:

629th Day in the Month of Svvvvmkdiejflnfodj in the 6793rd Year of Our Kitchen God

The past few nights I have been burning the midnight oil as well as the 1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM and 4 AM oils.   Unlike the home planet which boasts 62.3 hours in a day, the feeble earth day of a mere 24 hours is simply  unacceptable.  No wonder earth culture is so backward.  It's like the entire planet is on a permanent half day schedule and everyone knows that people slack off on half days because it's not a "real" day.  Since they don't have actual full days, nothing important is ever accomplished like harnessing cold fusion or inventing a peanut butter that doesn't stick to the roof of the mouth.  Of course we consider them the hillbillies of the galaxy.  All they need to do is to hoist the planet up on cinder blocks to complete the picture.

My caregivers insist on a set bed time, completely disregarding that I have a pressing agenda.  Why those two half witted dimwits don't get it, only the Kitchen God knows.  There simply and literally are not enough hours in the day for me to get it all done.  The Daddy Guy's bureau isn't going to climb itself and my trampoline jumping totals are way off.  I've also initiated a new project of climbing around the edge of the china cabinet on my tiptoes.  And don't even get me started on the invasion plans.  I am so far behind that I haven't sent back any Dum Dum reconnaissance models in weeks.

I simply do not understand my caregivers seeming obsession with sleep.  It is a waste of perfectly good hours.  Hours that they should be using to improve themselves.  Kitchen God knows they need every second they can get their hands on.  Therefore, although I do have a significant amount on my plate, I have decided a far more important task is to break them of this bad habit.  Sleep is nothing but indulgence and indulgence is a sign of being soft. 

The sleep deprivation exercises have been ongoing all week, commencing at about 3:30 AM.  Unfortunately my caregivers are excruciatingly lazy and sometimes it can take up to an hour of non-stop caterwalling and wall kicking before they rouse themselves from their nocturnal stupor and release me from my cell.  As they are extremely indolent, once we re-enter their bed chamber they climb back into bed which completely defeats the purpose of the entire exercise.  I then must engage in excessive trampoline jumping and bureau climbing in attempts to bestir them. Simultaneously I am yowling loudly.  These attempts to awaken them  are often futile.  I then must resort to pulling the Mommy Lady's hair and whacking the Daddy Guy with the television clicker.  These actions don't always result in getting them up so I am forced to tug on arm hair. 

The sleep deprivation project has not been easy as my caregivers are two of the biggest daffodils in the universe.  After only three days of the program they are reduced to tears, begging me to "Please be a good boy and go to sleep." Pathetic. I confess that most of the time their undignified behavior disgusts me.  No wonder I never make eye contact with them.

Fine Dining

With the threat of impending snow (which leads to the greater threat of being stuck inside the house for Kitchen God knows how long with my family), I decided to venture out for dinner tonight - get out while the getting's good.  My daughter had a play date so it was just the R.A., the R.A.'s grandmother, the R.A.'s uncle, and the R.A.'s mom.

Following  protocol, we selected a restaurant that was acceptable to the R.A. (with the tacit understanding that once we arrived at said restaurant the R.A. was within his rights to aggressively and loudly reject our selection.)  Again, following protocol*, we made the requisite stop at McD's for "fench fies, chickn, ketsup" before hitting the restaurant.  When placing our order at the drive-thru we also made sure to request ketchup.  Yes, we were going to a restaurant that would have ketchup but there were no guarentees that it would be the correct ketchup or in the correct format.  We just can't play fast and loose with that sort of thing.  Keep in mind that living with someone with Autism means doing damage control even before anything happens.  Not that it's possible to predict catastrophe but why leave anything to chance if you can help it?

We arrive at the restaurant and scout out the location, looking for a table not too close to other diners, preferably near a window.  Fortunately we found a cherry spot.  My mother and brother went to place our orders.  I got the R.A. settled.  Of course the dopes at McD did not put any ketchup packets in the bag.  My immediate reaction was one of anger which was quickly replaced by panic as this restaurant did not have ketchup packets but rather one of those pumps that you use to plop ketchup into a small dipping container - unacceptable.  The McD dopes, however, did pack the requisite white napkins - maybe I could salvage this.  It was all a question of what was more important - the ketchup packet or the napkin. I quickly found out that apparently both are equally important when it comes to meal presentation.  When I presented the R.A. with the little tub of ketchup he yowled angrily and indignantly at me and to further make his point attempted to sweep the container off the table.  Point well taken and ketchup container whisked away to adjacent trash bin, I did some more quick thinking (obviously still a gazillion times too slow for the R.A.).  The ketchup on a white napkin is imperative - wheels sl...ow...ly turning - so what if I just put the ketchup on the white napkin?  Sounds reasonable (I stupidly think.)  I went over to the other side of the restaurant, out of sight of the R.A., and pumped some ketchup on to a white McD napkin.  Cautiously I presented this to the R.A.  He eyed it and me suspiciously.  Although he wasn't convinced, the R.A. did allow it to remain on the table so it was a partial and grudging acceptance.  I'm not saying it didn't rankle him.  Frequently during our meal the R.A. would grab my hand and chin it like he was teaching me a lesson while yowling loudly.  Fortunately it was my right hand and I eat with my left hand so it didn't interfere too much with my meal and I got to eat most of it.

Meanwhile, a young couple sat at the booth next to ours.  Let me just say that I am not one of those easily offended, "We're Here, We're Loud and Autistic so Everyone Else Needs to Suck It Up" parents.  I don't force other people to endure the insanity when we are in places that the general public frequents. Heck, if my husband didn't make me stay with the family I wouldn't sit with them during meals out.  Believe me, I get it.  If the R.A. is being the R.A. "on eleven," we leave.  The past few years we've probably spent more time leaving places than remaining.  Tonight we purposefully selected a spot "far from the madding crowd."  It's not our fault that despite the plethora of empty tables in other areas of the restaurant the young couple selected the booth next to ours.  Every once in a while the woman would turn and look at us.  Finally they got up and moved to the booth farthest from us in the row.  I wasn't offended.  Fair play to them.  But then she went too far.  On her way out she shot us a dirty look.  That I am not fine with.  The R.A. was not the R.A. "on eleven" so it wasn't one of those occasions where we had to leave or should have left.  My husband and I want to create a t-shirt for the R.A. just for these moments.  On the front it would say, "I have autism."  On the back it would say, "So what's your (expletive) problem?"  Granted it wouldn't be appropriate church garb but would be acceptable for restaurants, especially those that we frequent.  I know I write a lot of silly  and whacked out junk in this blog - that's the way I cope.  But it doesn't take away from the fact that being an autism driven family is hard and sometimes the way other people act adds to the burden.  So if you're not a member of the "stim team," keep your opinions to yourself and keep moving. We autism families are doing the best we can with very little help.  So unless you're offering us a cure, your support, or offering to babysit, zip it.  I'm going to design autism family t-shirts.  On one side it will say: "We're exhausted.  We're overwhelmed.  We're in your community.  Get used to it."  On the other side it will say: "And we're coming to your house for dinner."  Believe you me, that's no idle threat.

*For more information about proper french fry protocol see this link.

Trick or Trick!

This past Friday there was a Halloween dance at the R.A.'s new school (i.e. Institute of Earth Acclimation).  It's really more of a family event than a dance per se. 

As it was a Halloween dance, that meant costumes were in order.  Luckily the R.A. is not fussy about his costume and for the past 3 years he has worn the same Thomas the Tank Engine costume.  A benefit of his crappy diet is that due to lack of any nutritional value the R.A. has not grown much and the costume still fits.  Of course, since we foolishly assumed the R.A. would acquiesce to the Thomas costume, he refused to wear it.  My husband had purchased a cheap witch's hat for me which the R.A. commandeered.  Costume confusion sorted out, we were off to the dance.  Apparently my husband has gotten attached to the Thomas costume because he wore it or rather draped it around his own neck.  He also brought a spare one in case the R.A. changed his mind once we got there.

It was nice to attend a function where nobody shot looks that said, Can't they do something about that kid? or stared pointedly with a good degree of hostility.  In that sense it was relaxing.  I had no worries about getting into it with anybody.  When we got home my mother asked if we got to talk to any other families.  No, because nobody had any time for talk as we were all trying desperately to keep our children from engaging in inappropriate and/or destructive behavior.  Not that any of the children were acting up with each other or even against each other - that's hard to do when they don't even make any eye contact with each other: Are you yowling at me?  Do I amuse you? No?  Are you yowling at him?  At her?  Me?  Him?  Oh, that bowl of carrot sticks.  My bad.  Since there was a lot of noise due to chatter/yowling and loud music, the kids were a teensy bit overly stimulated and spent the dance racing around and yowling as if we had given them kegs of cappuccino prior to the event.  We parents spent most of the time chasing our children in a futile attempt to keep them from knocking things over or crashing into each other.  Next year we need to load the parents up on cappuccino before the dance so that we can keep up.  My mother thinks we should do it as a fundraising activity.

The R.A. had an absolute ball as long as it wasn't expected that he engage in anything party related or party appropriate.  He spent much of his time doing suicides across the room regardless of any poor sap that was in his direct sprinting line.  Parents and staff knew to step aside but his fellow students were too busy doing their own things to move and we did have a couple of collisions.  The grownups apologized to each other profusely.  The children were too keyed up to notice that they were bounced to the floor, considering it only a slight pause in their manic activities. 

All that careening around the room did warrant some breaks. Despite the many empty chairs that ringed the room, the R.A. ignored them, instead  becoming quickly enamoured of a large, tall, oblong pumpkin whose intended purpose was as a target in a ring toss game (thankfully not currently being played).  This, the R.A. attempted to use as a chair, despite its large and protruding stem on top.  He tried sitting on it several times even though the stem was too big to allow a comfortable sitting space.  After each failed attempt, which resulted in the R.A. sliding off, he would charge the pumpkin, caterwalling in fury that the pumpkin would not allow him to sit.  One pumpkin-R.A. exchange was so heated that the R.A. wrangled with the pumpkin, knocking it over.  Initially the R.A. was furious at the pumpkin's insolence and its subsequent refusal to be moved back upright.  I even tried to get it to stand up and had no luck.  In an attempt to show the defiant pumpkin who was boss, the R.A. lunged at it, laying across it.  As he struggled to get up, the R.A. straddled the pumpkin and as he sat there it was like a gong went off in head - Hey!  Wait a sec.  This is comfortable.  I like it!  And so a new sitting spot was created.  As the pumpkin's original purpose was the focal point of a game, I had to wrestle the R.A. off the pumpkin.  By now the poor pumpkin had pretty much been through its paces and would not stay upright.  I ended up having to prop it up next to the wall and hoped the ring toss game wasn't an integral part of the success of the dance.

Despite the frantic pace of the event, a good time was had by all.  We are all looking forward to the Thanksgiving dance where the R.A. will probably take out a cornucopia.

Upping the Ante

It comes as no surprise that my morning training is going no where.  As I'm unable to pull myself together and perform to his outrageously demanding expectations, the R.A. has expanded morning exercises.  Either the R.A. is really pushing me to perform or he's punishing me.  Knowing him, it's a little of both but mostly the latter.

The yowling at me has also increased.  This is obviously a symptom of his overwhelming frustration.  I can only imagine his missives home:

769th Day of Ypfklakdnbjdio in the 45766 Year of Our Kitchen God

Another headache-inducing, frustrating morning of  stamina building exercises with the Mommy Lady.  I had hoped that since she was not blessed with brain, her talents would be more physically based.  Alas, this is painfully not true.  To put it bluntly, that Mommy Lady sucks.  Despite daily morning exercises, her coordination is not improving.  In fact, I believe it is actually getting worse.  I admit it was so atrocious to begin with that even I did not see that one coming.  The other morning, while she attempted to navigate the obstacle course I had very carefully constructed, she misstepped  and (horror of horrors) almost fell on top of me, knocking my chip out of my hand in the whole ugly process.  Have no fear - she did pay dearly for that transgression.  All I will say is that the punishment did involve a Sharpie marker.

The night vision is also not demonstrating signs of improvement, however, this is due primarily to her own weakness and stupendous laziness.  We still battle daily over her insistence on turning on a light.  In desperation she will also attempt to enlist the assistance of that Daddy Guy.  This exercise does not concern him and I wish he would just MHOB.*  Fortunately with one carefully directed head butt he is easily redirected.

Unfortunately, my attempts to toughen the old broad up are failing miserably.  Instead of rising to the occasion as any warrior worth her salt would, the Mommy Lady whines, cajoles, and even (much to my disgust) begs.  She also has surrendered on numerous occasions and subsequently has left the house looking like a Kweelfarxian refugee (no offense to Kweelfarxian refugees although some of the outfits the woman has cobbled together would even be offensive to them.)

I am at my wit's end.  In my great despair I have invoked the Kitchen God to give me strength. Obviously I must stop coddling the Mommy Lady.  I have decided to intensify our trainings.  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

That is exactly what the R.A. has done.  If I thought mornings were challenging before, we have entered a whole new stratosphere of torture.  Training has intensified.  Previously, the no lights mandate only involved the bedroom.  It has now expanded to the entire second floor of the house - the hallway, his bedroom, the bathroom.

On the plus side, I can now shower in complete darkness.  As long as I don't have to do anything that is in my best physical interest to see what I'm doing, such as shaving, I'm doing all right.  Shaving can be tricky as you really need to see which end of the razor you're grabbing.  If I do cut myself at least I have quick access to soap and water so the chances of infection are greatly reduced.

Originally, during the showering portion of my morning toilette, my husband tried to intervene.  This resulted in the bathroom light being flashed on and off and lots of yelling.  I sort of felt like I was having an epileptic fit.

Out of the shower is tough too.  As my bathroom gets very warm and full of steam, I like to open the bathroom door once I'm out of the shower.  At this point I do need the light to continue getting ready as I haven't mastered putting makeup on in the dark or doing my hair.  This is what happens:

I hop out of the shower and flick the light on and within 30 seconds a little hand appears around the doorway and "Click", off goes the light.  I click it back on.  Within nano seconds the light is turned off.  I turn it back on.  The R.A. appears in the doorway, frothing mad.  Now I try to block his hand from the light switch.  He's not having it.  We tussle.  Despite the heat, I'm now trying to maneuver him out of the bathroom and close the door.  He's really not having it.  After an impromptu session of Greco Roman baby wrestling and extreme chinning, I get him out and quickly close the door.  The R.A. remains outside the door, hollering at me.  Here's a loose interpretation - "You can't do that to me!  Do you know who I am, you intergalactic dung beetle?  I've been thrown out of much better places!  I know you have the light on!  I can see it under the crack at the bottom of the door!  I demand you open this door this instant!"

I wish I could just get everything done in that one session, but alas, I can't.  I do need to leave and re-enter the bathroom which means we have repeat wrestling sessions.  Sometimes the training is so rigorous I need to shower again.

The R.A.'s training regime has expanded to include his sister.  She gets a "double dose" of toughening as not only will the R.A. turn the lights off on her while she's in the bathroom but he will also slam the door, one time jamming it shut which caused her to have a melt down during which she dramatically shouted that she would be "locked in the bathroom forever!"  Despite that clearly being his plan, I was able to get her out.  Of course the R.A. was most displeased at being foiled.  He avenged himself by chinning me "on eleven."

It's pretty bad when you're completely exhausted and it's not even 7:30 AM.  I'm at the point where I'm praying for vaporization to put me out of my misery.

*Mind His Own Business

I've Had Enough

It was truly a loonnnggg weekend in many, many ways.  By Monday night the R.A. had had it.  I found him standing on top of his sister's toy stove, brandishing the "Stick of Infamy," rotating his free hand in a way that would have made Evita envious, and yowling on eleven.  It was one of those rare occasions where not only did I actually understand how the R.A. felt, if there was room on top of that stove, I would have joined him.  It had been an extremely busy weekend and we were all exhausted.  The R.A.'s routine was completely non-existent.  We went places he had never been to.  We did things he had never done before.  In both instances he probably never will again - Kitchen God willing, that is. 

As the weather was so nice we did spend much of it outside.  The end result was that the R.A. sounded like he had spent the past 42 years working in the coal mines of Appalachia and smoking pack after pack of unfiltered Winstons while he was at it.  His system has just not acclimated to the earth's atmosphere.  On the home planet the R.A. may be a tactical genius, a ruthless warmonger, and gifted speech maker but on earth he is felled by environmental allergens.  It must be extremely frustrating for the R.A.  Here he is, bent on total world domination and destruction but he has to put plans on hold because he needs a nebulizer treatment.  Betrayed by his own body. No wonder the R.A. is so crabby all the time.  He's frustrated.  It also explains his extreme dislike of nebulizer treatments - "My nemesis, we meet again.  I would crush you, you little tube of vapor.  But I can't because I'm coughing too hard and can't catch my breath.  As the Kitchen God is my witness I will exact my vengeance!"  [Insert spluttering cough here.]  He probably thinks we are using the nebulizer in an attempt to vaporize him. "Stupid earthlings!  Do they think their puny vaporizing weapon can hurt me?  Don't they know who I am?" [Insert evil cackling here that ends as spluttering coughs.]  The R.A. may have moments where he is down but never out.  On occasion he does take his revenge by getting so worked up during nebulizer treatments that he causes himself to have these violent coughing fits.  These fits are so bad that eventually he ends up vomiting.  "Take that, stupid earthlings!" [Insert retching and wheezing here.]  The R.A. is not above fighting dirty.  Literally.

Hot Off the Presses!

Here's the latest blog key word search that turned up on my blog: "alien mom autism."  I think that's the R.A.'s blog about life with me that he shares with the home planet.  I bet it's a real laugh riot.

Color My World

As I am self-centered, I do regularly check the stats. for this blog.  I'm also terribly needy and must make sure that both my followers are still reading.  Technically I have three followers.  It's just that my mom isn't computer savvy so other people have to navigate the site for her. 

In addition to stats. it also shows key words people used to end up on my blog.  Sometimes people are using key word to get here on purpose.  Other times they stumble here via their key word search.  (Can you imagine what they must have thought?  Especially the hits from Germany and other countries. "Ja.  No wonder American space program failing.  They are putting autism children in space.  Is true.  I read it on the Internets.")  Recently one of the key word searches listed was "Reluctant Astronaut Coloring Book."  I was like, really?  Did someone beat me to the marketing punch?  Then I was surprised that someone would want to make an R.A. coloring book let alone color in one.  Upon further investigation, however, I discovered that this coloring book has nothing to do with my R.A.  Apparently there was a movie made called The Reluctant Astronaut starring the venerable and talented Mr. Don Knotts.  No doubt that was a contender for the 1967 Academy Award.

But that got me thinking what a coloring book about my R.A. would contain:

• Pictures of ketchup (packets and bottles), Pringles, Munchos, and chewies under which captions read: A good astronaut needs to have a healthy diet so that he is prepared for the invasion and subsequent battle for domination of Earth.  Broken Pringles are an affront to the R.A.'s delicate sensibilities.  Most earth food is inedible. Walking while eating improves digestion. Toe walking while eating really improves digestion and builds up calf muscles.
• Pictures of the R.A. in action: A good man servant knows to always keep his master's juice cup full (or he will feel his master's wrath!)  To build his leg muscles, the R.A. scales Daddy's bureau daily.  Mommy did not give the R.A. a banana as he demanded.  The R.A. does not want to hear her pitiful excuse that there are no bananas.  Therefore the R.A. will chin Mommy's arm.  Repeatedly.  Regardless of the fact that she is attempting to strain a large and steaming pot of pasta.
• Pictures of Thomas the Tank Engine: One of the few worthwhile creatures on Earth are Thomas and some of his cohorts.  That Sir Topham Hat is already marked for vaporization as well as his overbearing and demanding mother.
• Pictures of intricate designs created from Dum Dum lollipops: The R.A. regularly communicates with the home planet and shares invasion plans.

I mean really, what child could resist?  Well, the R.A. for one.  He will only color on things that are absolutely not meant to be colored on like IEP (Individualized Education Plans) reports or his sister's homework.  The R.A. does have lots of actual coloring books.  When we hand them to him he looks at them with a disdainful expression as if we are attempting to give him a bag of broken Pringles.

Just wait until the R.A.'s action figures come out - with ketchup bottle action grip!

The Amazing(ly Stupid) Race

As has been referenced previously (numerous times), the R.A. finds earthlings disgustingly weak.  Therefore he has us in a rigorous and constant training program in an attempt to toughen us up.  It's been pretty slow going for all concerned.  The R.A. gets frustrated by our consistent wimpiness and we are exhausted by the grueling training exercises.  In addition to the exercises being grueling, he likes to include elements of surprise.  It's sort of like someone tapping you on the shoulder, you turn, and WHAM!  You get a whack in the face with a cast iron skillet.  Only it's rarely that pleasant.

Currently the R.A. is working on my speed and my night vision both of which he finds lacking, as he finds with pretty much everything else about me.  He is attempting to combat these deficiencies with a specific daily exercise.  All I want to do is get dressed so I can drop his sister off at school and I can go to work.  For him it is another opportunity to whip me into shape.  The R.A. has taken my daily dressing process and made it as challenging as he can without actually involving mixed martial arts and that's probably only because he's under a time crunch.

By the time I need to get dressed, the R.A. is up and about.  Well, he's been up for about 2 to 3 hours, caterwalling and yowling in his room, demanding to be set free, our usual cheerful morning greeter.  His
man servant/father complies and releases him.  The R.A. retires to our bedroom to spend time relaxing before he himself heads off to school.  He spends time attempting to climb his father's bureau, demanding potato chips from his man servant, attempting to climb the bookcase, demanding pretzels from his man servant, attempting to climb the book shelves.  You know, the usual wake up activities.

In the midst of this, I attempt to get myself dressed.  The training exercise has begun.  The first few minutes is like an obstacle course as I navigate around carefully arranged trains, Lego pieces, and puzzle pieces that cover most of my bedroom floor.  It's sort of the R.A'.s equivalent to land mines.  Stepped upon in bare feet it can be excruciatingly painful.  I should also mention this exercise is done in the dark as the R.A. does not allow us to flick on the lights.  In addition to being a night vision exercise, it is also an exercise in coordination and despite spending almost every morning encountering this field o' foot pain, much to the R.A.'s dismay, I never improve.

Eventually I make my way to my closet.  In the dark.  Now I really need the light turned on.  Obviously this is completely unacceptable.  The minute I turn the light on, the R.A. flicks it off, often barking at me as he can't believe my incredible gall.  I think it translates into, "Did I say you could turn the light on, you worthless and weak earthling?  You have not earned the privilege of the light!"  We go back and forth for a few minutes.  Sometimes the R.A. messes with me and doesn't go for the light switch right away and I scurry into the closet only to just touch a piece of clothing when, "Flick!" the light goes off.  At this point my husband gets involved and a vigorous match of Greco-Roman baby wrestling ensues as Daddy tries to pull the R.A. away from the light switch.  It's like the scene in Saving Private Ryan where they're storming the beaches of Normandy except louder and bloodier.  There's screaming and tears.  And the R.A. is upset too.  When my husband finally manages to remove the R.A. from the light switch he hollers, "Now!  Go! Go! Go!"  I hurtle myself into the closet, knowing I'm on borrowed time.  My hands are shaking and I'm cursing my color blindness, hoping against hope that I don't pull out something that makes me look like an Albanian refuge (no offense, Albanian refugees.)  Half the time what I end up with is probably an affront to Albanian refugees.

Exhausted and traumatized, I finally dress myself.  All told, this morning exercise adds about 20 minutes on to my "morning toillette" and takes about 6 years off my life.  I'm seriously considering getting dressed the night before and sleeping in my clothes.

He (Toe) Walks in Beauty

Well, the R.A. finally got the big break in his modeling career that he'd been waiting for.  He's going to be the cover boy for his school's newest brochure.  Frankly, I don't know if the R.A. got the coveted cover because of his fresh faced looks or because it was the only shot the school had of a student that didn't look confused or p.o.'d.  My husband, on the other hand, was positively thrilled.  The other morning he said to me, "Do you think they will have the new brochures ready for Sunday's autism walk?"  Seeing as they only took the photo roughly about 12 minutes ago I told him I didn't think so.  Honestly, the man is beside himself with excitement.  What does he think - that there will be modeling scouts from New York and Paris casing the autism walk for the "Next Big Thing?" 

I was amazed that they were able to get a decent photo of the R.A.  Most photos we have of the R.A. look like something out of "Ghost Hunters" as he's usually portrayed as a blur.  The few still shots of him are not that flattering as he looks angry yet confused.  We have this one photo of the R.A. that we refer to as the "What the FU#*?!" picture as that is clearly what his expression is saying.

I will say, and I say this completely objectively, in person the R.A. is remarkably adorable.  Although darker like my side of the family, no one ever says he looks like me.  Oddly, many people say the R.A. looks like my brother.  I know, creepy weird, right? 

I confess this sort of disappoints me.  The R.A.'s sister looks very much like her father. She was his "mini me" piping hot straight from the womb.  My husband has been stopped by people he doesn't know who say, "You're KiKi's dad."  In my case, when I would take my blond haired, blue eyed infant daughter places, people would coo over how beautiful she was and inevitably turn to me and say, "And this is....?"  My mother used to say they probably thought I was the nanny from Ecuador.  When my mother and I would be out with the baby I told my mother people probably thought we were the housekeeper and the nanny taking out the boss' kid. 

One day I just snapped.  My daughter and I were at Friendly's and right on cue, after fawning over the baby the waitress asked "The Question."  I responded that I was indeed the baby's mother and that I had adopted her from Sweden as everybody knows all the best babies come from Scandinavia.  As far as what was hot in international adoptions, Scandinavian babies were the new Chinese babies.  Unfortunately my snarky sarcasm was lost on the waitress who listened attentively to me.  She probably went home and knowingly told her family, "China's out.  Sweden's in."

Once my daughter started talking and publicly referring to me as her mother, "The Question" stopped being asked.  People now just assume she's adopted.  I am sure by the time she's a tween she'll be telling people that anyway.

The Big Five Oh

It's hard to believe but this is post # 50.  It seems like only yesterday the R.A. had done something (yet again) completely foreign, totally flummoxing me and I thought, "I will share this with the world. It's not enough that close friends and family know how excruciatingly stupid I am."  And so the Reluctant Astronaut's Mom's blog was born.  What an auspicious moment for personkind!  I also confess that I was getting really sick of those saccharine-y "My child has autism but is amazing and I wouldn't change it for the world because his autism has made me a better person and by the way I single-handedly care for him and I went back to school to become a BCBA* so I can continue his therapy at home after school hours and on weekends and I don't have any money challenges because of the autism and this blog is a testament not so much to my child's triumphs but to me crowing about my self sacrifice and how freaking fabulous I am" blogs. Blech!  Those parents are really autism's most serious casualty.

Those parents.  You know who those parents used to be?  Picture it - 10th grade.  Last period on a Friday afternoon in the beginning of June.  One minute before the bell rings.  Everyone but one kid is watching the painfully slow progression of the second hand on the classroom clock.  Everyone, but that one kid, is holding their collective breaths and willing that second hand to go faster.  Except for that one kid, whose hand has shot up into the air.  It's flailing wildly and its owner declares, "But insert teacher's name here you forgot to give us our homework!"  I was a complete dork in high school and even I wanted to beat up that kid.  That kid grew up to be one of  those obnoxiously over-achieving parents.  They're bad enough when they're only parenting "neural-typical" kids.  Add in a disability and those parents are brutal.  I wanted to stuff their heads in toilets in high school and I still do.

Frankly, I can't believe I've stuck with the blog thing this long.  That's a real miracle.  I thought by now I surely would have surrendered to exhaustion or my terminal laziness and abandoned the whole thing. It's probably because I'm never allowed access to the TV so it's one of those "what the heck else am I gonna do?" thingos.  I suppose I could do some cleaning in those down moments. insert loud guffaw here  It's too bad for the world that for once I am following through on things.

You're welcome, world.

*To put it in technical terms - one of those autism-y specialist type persons

And there was great rejoicing in the land! Or maybe not.

Apparently, Heinz ketchup is rolling out a new design for its packets.  For the R.A. this could go one of two ways -
Whoopie!  Yowzah!  Allelulia!  I love it! Love it! Love it!
or
What in H.E. Double Hockey Sticks is that supposed to be?  Take it away!  Take it away now!  It offends me greatly!  Now you will all pay!

For some reason I'm leaning toward the second response.  I don't know why....

Walk Loudly

And still carry a big stick.

Lately we've taken to calling the R.A. "Teddy" as in Teddy Roosevelt because he's become very taken with walking around carrying a very large stick.  It's actually not a stick per se.  Originally it was a leash of sorts for one of my daughter's stuffed animals. (Being more stick-like than leash-like makes it easier to pretend the animal is walking on the leash.)

The stick had long been abandoned by my daughter when the R.A. stumbled  across it and quickly became enamoured of it.  I don't know if it plays into his General Patton aspirations but it's his latest "thing."  It's not unusual for people to become attached to things - a blanket, a stuffed animal, a misspelled grade 8 school basketball jersey, one's children (unless you're Ivan the Terrible - then all bets are off.)  It's not unusual for people on the spectrum to become attached to things that a neural-typical person might find odd - a train, a book, the number 8, or a red and white long and wobbly stick.  As a child, my attachment was to a stuffed animal that we determined to be a crocodile although it was shaped like a frog but had teeth.  None of us is really in any position to judge other's attachments.  (Don't look so superior.  You know you've got your own outlandish attachments.  I know of someone who collects Jello memorabilia.  What's that about?)

The R.A. likes to parade around the house clutching the stick, brandishing it with a flourish, like a very tiny Captain Blood.  Often he is caterwalling at the same time.  Either he's using the stick to emphasize a remark ("So when I say leave the yaw yee posh formation on the floor, I mean leave the yaw yee posh formation on the floor!") or threatening us ("Your day is coming, incompetant dunderheads!")  I can't tell.

Since the appearance of the stick, the family has had to make some adjustments.  We've learned to do a lot of bobbing and weaving to avoid being smacked by the stick.  Our reflexes are also improving as we've been doing a lot of stick blocking as it wobbles in our direction.  We've also gotten pretty good at leaping and lunging at the stick to keep it from making contact with our ceiling fan or anything breakable.  Of course we do all of this while simultaneously engaging in our daily activities such as eating, reading, talking on the phone, typing on the computer, watching television, bathing.  No, we don't take the stick away.  Honestly, it never occurred to any of us to do so.  We just accepted it as the R.A.'s newest "thing."

When a person has a disability, she adjusts to how she interacts with the world.  I know this because my mother has had serious vision problems her whole life.  She adjusts to the situation. (Well, as long as she can see the situation.  If not it usually means she has tripped and fallen over the situation.  But that's a whole "nother" blog - The Partially Blind Astronaut's Daughter.)  What's interesting about autism (or more like frustrating) is that the autistic person doesn't adjust to the world.  It's the rest of the world that has to adjust, especially the family.  My family is constantly in a state of adjustment.  It's now so organic that we make the adjustments without really thinking about it.  So when the R.A. appears during meal time brandishing the "Stick of Infamy" we just duck and chew.  For my family it's like we're trying to live a life despite the challenges of the autism.  Or at least get through dinner.

The Boob Toob

The R.A. has 5 television programs he enjoys:
1. Thomas the Tank Engine
2. Thomas the Tank Engine
3. Thomas the Tank Engine
4. The Backyardigans
5. Go Go Diego

Numbers 4 and 5 are DISTANT 4th and 5th place qualifiers.  I think he just throws them in to show that he's really a flexible, "roll with it" kind of guy, not bogged down by routine.  You know, like most people on the Autism spectrum.

As the R.A. is in constant motion, his television experience is also quite cardio-vascular.  The experience begins with him roughly thrusting or tossing the remote at you while demanding, "Thomash show.  Thomash show." (translation: Thomas show.  Thomas show.) or on those occasions when he's feeling daring and devil may care, "Backyahdibans.  Backyahdibans." (translation: Backyardigans.  Backyardigans.)  Unfortunately the R.A.'s never been a master of timing and his demand for his television program tends to coincide at inopportune times, like when you're making his sister's dinner or in the shower.  The R.A. does not want to hear any of your excuses like you're frying an egg or naked and soaking wet.  Just get it done, immediately if not sooner.

Once you finally get your act together and put the demanded show on, next commences a quick series of "suicides", to and fro in front of the television set.  Many times you're certain he's going to barrel into the TV but he always manages to stop fast, sometimes inches from the screen.  This may be his viewing experience's warm up.

Following the suicides are jumping jacks or rather the R.A.'s version - jumping up and down at a frantic pace while rapidly flapping his hands and yowling.  This is done directly in front of the television.

Then the R.A. becomes more reflective and ceases his frantic movements.  Now he stands less than an inch from the television and flicks at the screen with his fingers, "Plinck, plinck, plinck."  Occasionally he will cry out, maybe warning one of the characters of an upcoming catastrophe (usually involving the trains displeasing that Sir Topham Hatt - what a despot!  Those silly trains never learn they can never please that man.  They're always being set up for failure.  Just once I'd like to see an episode where Thomas snaps and runs over him - repeatedly, while screaming,  "Who's the useful engine now, old man?!!!")

Sometimes there can be variations, especially if he is watching his show while eating.  This afternoon, after the accepted television viewing procedure - suicides, jumping, flicking - he also spent some down time eating a banana (his third of the afternoon) while sitting in a chair and dangling his feet in his toy box.  I think he was also attempting to pick up some toys up with his toes.  Obviously.  I mean, what else does one do while eating a banana?

Although the R.A. would prefer only his television shows, he is magnanimous and will graciously allow us to occasionally view our own shows.  The other night the entire family, including the R.A., was in the living room watching television, a "non-R.A." program.  We'd been watching for a while when my mother remarked that the R.A. had us well trained.  It took a moment for me to figure out what she was talking about.  Even though it wasn't his television show, the R.A. was still adhering to his television viewing protocol.  This meant that 95% of the time he was in front of the TV, pretty much blocking it.  Instead of telling him to move, as a "normal" family would, we simply craned our necks and re-adjusted our own sitting positions in attempts to see around the R.A.  It had never occurred to us to move him.  Do you think after this realization we then moved him?

Are you mad?  That's not proper procedure.

Table for One

The R.A.'s preferred way to dine does not typically involve sitting.  He likes to "graze" meaning he grabs a chip or cookie and walks around while he consumes it - usually on his tip toes (he has rock hard calves.)  Obviously sitting while eating is considered something for pansies on the home planet and therefore detested.  This also explains why the R.A. is so driven to provide a miserable dining experience for the rest of us "sitters."  He is determined to break us of this bad habit.

We, on the other hand, are intent on having the R.A. sit while he eats.  Or at least while he eats fruit as like any despot worth his salt he will just drop the no longer enjoyable fruit where he feels like it.  Unfortunately sometimes we don't stumble across the discarded fruit for several days. [insert gag here]  Did you know old bananas can appear to be petrified?  I won't provide any further descriptions of rotten fruit, taking into consideration those of you with delicate stomachs.  Just take my word for it.

As you can well imagine, this exercise in "earthling dining protocol" is borderline futile.  The R.A. considers earthlings in general to be inferior and has not an ounce of respect for our mores, including eating.  This is how it usually goes:

The R.A. appears, lugging an entire hand of bananas/bag of apples/bag of grapes.  His usual M.O. is to do this when you are occupied in an activity that involves both of your hands, high heat, and perfect timing.  Despite saying to him, several times, "One minute, buddy.  Mommy is busy.  Just a second.  I have both hands in the oven and am attempting to pull the baking sheet from a 450 degree oven." the R.A. continuously attempts to thrust the fruit into your body.  Sometimes he will become so disgusted he will toss it at you.  Luckily it only hurts when it's the apples.

Next, you pull the fruit out of the bag or off the bunch and hold it up and just out of his reach while saying, "If you want the ______ you must sit at the table."  You will say this several times as the R.A. is so excited by the prospect of the fruit he is jumping in circles around you.  When he finally calms down you maneuver him to the table.  He sits and receives the fruit.  You sit nearby as, despite the R.A.'s assertion that you are as dumb as you look, you are not and know that if you leave the room he will be up and roaming.  The R.A., again working on the above assertion, initially sits quietly and has a few nibbles of the fruit.  He doesn't acknowledge you.  The R.A. is attempting to lull you into a fall sense of security - "See what a good boy I am?  You can count on me to follow the rules.  Now, why don't you go clean the jacuzzi or something?"

But even though you are in the room, the R.A. just cannot sit and eat.  It goes too deeply against his alien grain.  He starts off slowly, standing on the chair.  You order him to sit.  He does.  You will do this several times.  Things will escalate to him standing on the floor and eventually to him taking a few steps.  All the while you will tell him to sit and he will for 22.3 seconds each time.  Finally you will threaten, "If you want the ______ you will sit.  If you don't sit, no _________."  Ultimately you will end up taking the fruit.  This will enrage the R.A. and may result in some chinning, sometimes you will be chinned in the process.

So that's how we get some nutritional items into the R.A.'s diet.

Recently the R.A. has discovered a new favorite dining spot - on top of our convection oven.  On the one hand inappropriate, on the other we're pleased he has kept this newest quirk within the food realm and has not chosen, for example, to eat on top of the television set.  Take the progress where you can!

He does not sit on top of the convection oven while it is on (at least not as of this posting.)  The oven is on top of a small table and next to the oven we have stacked some cartons of soda.  The R.A. stands on the cartons and lays out his food on top of the convection oven.  An added bonus is that this new set up is directly in front of the kitchen's air condition unit, another electrical gizmo that provides the R.A. hours of interest.

So far he has not attempted to dine "al convection" while the oven was in use.  I am fairly certain that when this situation arises it will elicit a heated round of "greco-baby" wrestling as I know the R.A. will be more than displeased that he won't be allowed to eat on top of the hot oven and will tenaciously pursue use of said oven.  What's great about my life is that there is always something to look forward to.  Or as I like to think of it, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Bon appetite!

Another Relaxing Friday Night

Tonight we treated ourselves to dinner out.  Actually it's not so much a "treat" as much as an "exercise in misguided optimism/idiocy."  Frankly, by the time Friday night comes around I'm pretty pooped and incapable of making good decisions.  Therefore when my mother suggested going out I thought it was a good idea.

The R.A. quite enjoys a good dining experience.  Tonight he was especially jazzed because his sister was not accompanying us.  My daughter adores her little brother and lavishes him with attention - and we all know how much people on the spectrum love to be bombarded with unrelenting attention (for you autism neophytes - people on the spectrum don't like being bombarded with unrelenting attention).  The R.A. was positively giddy on the drive to the restaurant.  He was stimming for Britain and happily caterwalling.  No doubt the caterwalling translated to, "Free at last!  Free at last!  Lord Almighty, I'm free at last!  Or at least until she gets home but heck, I'll take it!"

Of course, our first stop was MacDonald's for the requisite french fries and extra ketchup.  Making the stop doesn't mean that he will eat them.  There's only a 50-50 chance that he will but not purchasing them is not worth the risk.  When ordering the fries you have to be vigilant about the extra ketchup thing.  Many an outing has been ruined by the discovery of a ketchup deficiency.  A "ketchup diva" is not conducive to a pleasant dining experience.  Neither is a "napkin diva" so you also have to make sure they put in more than the regulation two napkins in the bag.

Sometimes (okay, most of the time) by the time the french fries, ketchup, napkin thing is all taken care of, I'm exhausted.  Tonight I soldier on and we finally get to the restaurant.  Settling ourselves at our table is another big project - who sits where is usually dominated by where to put the R.A. so he can't escape out of the booth or frighten others diners (or my mother.)  Properly arranging the napkins, fries, and ketchup is another one.  Once we are all set my mother immediately decides we should sit at another table.  Always over achievers, we add another  big project and pack up the fries, ketchup, napkins and our various assorted junk and re-settle at another table.

I should note that there was another little boy on the spectrum at the restaurant.  He and the R.A. acknowledged each other in the traditional ASD way - not making eye contact and emitting loud noises.  Not to brag but my kid's noises were louder and had a more pronounced "shrieky" quality.  I guess his forfeiting sleep the previous night in favor of practicing eardrum splitting yowls really paid off.  He is nothing if not a perfectionist.

It was one of our usual low key, relaxing meals.  Despite the R.A. repeatedly attempting to climb over me to lunge at the window behind me (he loves looking out windows - it probably has something to do with reconnaissance) I still managed to eat some of my dinner.  And while it was still sort of warm-ish. 

FYI - tonight the R.A. did not eat the fries (which explains why he had so much time to devote to his window lunge exercises).  Part of the problem may have been my mother inadvertently ruining the french fries/napkin/ketchup arrangement.  Her dish mooshed the napkin which in turn smeared the ketchup.  Game over.

All in all it was a good night.

The Marx Brothers They Ain't

The other night my daughter, my mother, and I were sitting on the couch watching "America's Funniest Videos."  We were roaring with laughter.  Since I have the sense of humor of a 14 year old boy I howl whenever they show the "getting whacked in the Lord and Little Gents"* clips.  Fortunately AFV is heavily laden with them.

The R.A. was sitting in a chair across from us.  He would look at the TV, look at us, back to the TV, back to us and so on.  His expression read, "What?  I don't get it."  Finally the R.A. couldn't stand it any more.  He jumped off his chair, tugged on my arm and said, "Night, night" meaning he would rather go to bed than have to watch another minute of dogs riding sleds - yet more evidence that he's from another planet as everyone loves the dogs riding sleds shtick.

So what does the R.A. find amusing?  What tickles his funny bone?  He does have these hysterical laughing fits.  Typically these happen when nothing remotely funny has happened such as Fr. Mark updating the congregation on his father's surgery or while I'm taking an important phone call (that time he was laughing so hard he fell off the bed - thank God for his large and durable noggin).  What's probably happening during these laughing jags is he's on a call to the home planet and is regaling them with one of our dumb ass moves:

Oh, my Kitchen God!  It was hysterical!  That Mommy Lady was busy with that "Sister Person" but I was bored.  So I went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of cream. As I am allergic to dairy I tried to pour some into my mouth.  Unfortunately it primarily ended up on the floor.  It seemed a shame to waste it and it looked so inviting.  Of course I rolled in it and lapped it up from the floor.  That Mommy Lady came charging into the kitchen, screamed, and hauled me into the living room.  As she cleaned up the floor the dairy allergy kicked in and I started to wretch.  I had just situated myself on the couch and was about to vomit all over it when that Mommy Lady came tearing into the living room and dragged me off the couch.  A real shame because I know I could have covered it with boof.

Sometimes, just for the fun of it, I like to gag, make like I'm going to hurl. I do it out of the blue.  You should see how it freaks them out!  Sometimes I laugh so hard I could wet myself.  Heck, most of the time I do!  If there's one thing I've learned from my time here is that you have to make your own fun and preferably at their expense. 

While I don't know what he's laughing at I do know one thing - he's not laughing with us.  He's laughing at us.

*"Man Bits"