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.