Mardi Gras in Massachusetts

At times the R.A. can be a bit of a handful.  I may have indicated that once or twice in a blog posting.  Apparently he can also have his bat-sh*# crazy, mad with power, super dictator moments at school so they designed a "time out" protocol to handle those moments when his behavior is a little less than appropriate.  Let me just say, they don't mess around at his school.  We don't just get a note saying, "Dear Mr. and Mrs. R.A.'s Parents: The R.A. has been extremely naughty as of late so we're going to start giving him time-outs."  We get an actual report, not just about what undesirable behavior he has been engaging in at school but it also has footnotes citing studies and other reports written by people with lots of initials after their names.  The report from school required our signatures and since we were so impressed/intimidated by the use of footnotes, we signed it.

So now we have a brand spanking new, still has that "new protocol smell" procedure for handling inappropriate R.A. behavior.  Except for the R.A., we are all on board with it.  That's important because there has to be consistency at school and at home.  We all need to be on the same page.  Again I'm talking about everyone except the R.A.  Not only is he not on the same page but he's not even using the same book as the rest of us and I also think he reads his book backwards and upside down. Which come to think of it is really at the root of all our problems.  We're using entirely different play books, for different games.

Here's the procedure in a nut shell: When the R.A. initiates inappropriate behavior i.e. lunging in fury at another person while brandishing the Sticks of Infamy, coloring on his sister, throwing an unacceptable juice cup at his father/manservant, chinning himself, chinning his bus driver, chinning an unsuspecting clerk at Target, etc., we are to immediately remove the R.A. from the situation and place him in the nearest chair facing away from any activity, especially "preferred" activity i.e. lunging in fury, coloring on other people, tossing juice cups, chinning unsuspecting innocent bystanders, etc.  We are to do this without saying a word.  We are then to stand near him but with our backs toward him to show that we are ignoring him.  They have used this method several times at school and the staff there says it does work because the R.A., used to being the sole center of attention (that's Copernicus, Mr. Copernicus if you're nasty) is completely baffled by being ignored.  When he's hustled into the chair the R.A. looks up at the back of the nearby staff member with a look that says, What the hell is going on here? His teachers say the biggest challenge with this new protocol is not laughing out loud at the R.A.'s expression.  You know it's remarkable when the kid with autism is desperate to make eye contact with someone.

Because we want to be good team players (and are a little intimated by his school - I don't even want to think about the reports that have been written about us) we have started using this procedure at home.  Surprisingly, our "time out" experiences have not been as overwhelmingly positive.  One time I applied the procedure and the R.A. refused to remain seated in the chair.  I had to keep placing him back in the chair and then tried to keep him seated.  As I was doing this without speaking it looked like some strange sort of Kabuki theater presentation which is saying something because if you've ever seen Kabuki, it is pretty strange in and of itself without the addition of a yowling, flailing kid with autism and his sweaty and out of breath mother.  Added bonus - I was in the middle of this when my mother's home health nurse walked into the room.  Of course I was!  Well, every good theater performance needs an audience!

This morning the R.A. was in rare form.  I don't know if he was channeling his inner rock star but he was determined to knock over a pile of books, not once but twice.  The second time as the R.A. was approaching the pile of just picked up books his grandmother warned him not to do it.  Clearly this offended the R.A. -  who did she think she was, thinking she could tell the R.A. what to do?  To prove his point the R.A. shoved the books over.  My husband swooped down, grabbed the R.A. and plopped him into a chair in our bedroom.  As dictated by protocol, we proceeded to ignore the R.A.  We determined that this had had a great effect on the R.A. as he kept grinning at us and demanding a tickle.

When the time-out session was done, I removed the R.A. from the chair.  He smiled up at me and climbed back up in the chair.  He scootched himself back in the seat, making himself comfortable, crowing with delight. The R.A. jauntily waved the Sticks of Infamy. He looked like a Mardi Gras king on his throne, waving to parade goers.  All he needed were some doubloons and necklaces to toss to me and my husband.  We removed him from the chair two more times.  By the third time we just left  him on the chair as now we would be engaged in some sort of bizarre reverse time-out protocol.  We were pretty certain staff at the R.A.'s school would not be down with that.

I do think an important lesson was learned this morning - we are as stupid as the R.A. thinks we are.

Grab Your Coat and Let's Start Walking

Yesterday afternoon I came home from work and headed up to the R.A.'s room to rouse him from a nap.  Although the R.A. feels compelled to wake others from sound slumbers, he very much resents being forced awake himself so when I entered his room he rolled away from me but first shot me a filthy look.  As he lay there, rubbing the sleep from his eyes he stopped, turned his face to me and said, "Fre fies.  Fre fies."

"Sorry, buddy.  No fries tonight," I responded and headed out to begin the "night shift" chores.

The R.A. did not find this an acceptable answer and proceeded to yowl in fury.  He yowled intermittently during his bath and really worked himself up after his bath. In addition to being hell on the listener's ear drums, the yowling also gives the R.A. a stomachache.  The more worked up he gets, the more air he sucks in and creates gas thus giving himself a stomachache.  The R.A. gets so frenzied that he can't be calmed down so you have to let him carry on which I gladly did after getting kicked several times.  As I left the room he tooted a couple of times.  Gas relieved he then started to calm down.

After the R.A. pulled himself together, he descended downstairs, somewhat, and spent the earlier portion of the evening hanging around  the stairs that lead up to the second floor.  He was caterwauling loudly (no doubt a scathing commentary about what will happen to those foolish enough to deny him french fries) while waving the Stick of Infamy as well as its new companion, the Stick of Not So Much Infamy. 

For Valentine's Day his grandmother got him one of those tubes that is filled with M & M's and has an M & M character on top.  She knows the R.A. will not deign to eat such slop as chocolate but thought he would like the stick.  Secretly I think my mother was hoping the tube would replace the Stick of Infamy.  The tube is smaller and does not have a pointy end making it not as potent a weapon.  Shockingly, her plan did not work out and now the R.A. is two-fisting his sticks.  I believe he quite likes the dramatic effect of two sticks being brandished wildly while he rants like a mad man.

While this rigorous diatribe was being played out, my mother and daughter were in the adjacent dining room for "Reading Time."  Each night after dinner my daughter has silent reading time.  After that her grandmother reads to her aloud.  Last night the R.A.'s verbal hijinks were so clamorous that Nana and granddaughter couldn't hear each other.  Periodically my mother would admonish the R.A. and yell, "QUIET!" to which the R.A. would respond, "QUIET!" in the exact same tone.  We don't know if he was parroting her or was in fact telling her to shut her own pie hole.

This cacophonous jamboree did not curb the R.A.'s desire for "fre fies."  Every time I went near the kid he would ask for french fries and every time he did I responded in the negative. The next tactic the R.A. took was to ask for the fries and then, to bring the point home, he would take me by the hand, lead me to the kitchen door, place my hand on the door knob and say, "Fre fies."  This little exercise meant he wanted me to go out to McDonald's and get the fries.

When this didn't work the R.A. decided he would have to take matters into his own hands.  He would go and get his coat and my coat, hand them to me and say, "Fre fies."  I would re-re-reaffirm that tonight there would be no french fries and put the coats back.  The R.A. must have been tired because we only did that 50 or 60 times.

But the R.A. was not to be deterred.  Seeing as I wouldn't help him out, he put on his own coat - inside out and upside down.  The hood was dangling down over his bottom, making the hood appear to be a bum hat.  He then stood by the kitchen door waiting to go.  Mind you the R.A. was also wearing his regulation backward/feet cut off footie pajamas, no socks, and no shoes.  But he was ready to roll.  He even had a small container of Pringles and a juice cup to sustain him on the journey. As the R.A. waited he rocked from side to side.  To be honest he looked like a bum on an Intergalactic Skid Row.

The rest of us remained in the living room, enjoying the relative quiet.  Periodically the R.A. would come into the living room, grab a Pringle from another container, munch it and look at me expectantly.  If he could talk I'm sure he'd say, "Are we ready yet?  I'm ready.  Let's go."

When I announced it was time for bed I thought he would have a fit because I did not get him his fries.  The R.A. did yowl furiously as he ripped off his coat and tossed it to the floor but did ascend to his room.  I then figured he would be up for hours, calling me out and cursing me and my entire kind.  But I guess between frantic pontificating, brandishing two sticks, and chasing me with coats tuckered him out because he was asleep within minutes.  The life of a dictator is not an easy one.

By this evening his craving for fries had not abated.  My greeting when I got home from work was "Fre fies."  As I typed this blog entry the R.A. kept shoving his coat at me, at one time tossing it over the computer screen. 

Tonight there is a fund raiser at Papa Gino's for my daughter's school so I will have to get him french fries.  Whenever we do take out we have to get him fries.  If we don't the R.A. will stand forlornly in the kitchen whimpering, "Fre fies."  It's very pathetic, like something out of "Oliver!"

Before I left to pick up the food I spent time blogging.  While I worked I did tell the overly impatient R.A. that tonight there would be fries.  He looked at me warily but sat in a chair across from me, waiting.  Occasionally he would get up, thrust his coat at me and demand, "Fre fies."  Finally, sick of my procrastinating the R.A. put on his coat (again inside out and upside down) and half pulled his hat on his head (backwards.)  He then stood next to me while glaring viciously.  I think if the R.A. could speak he would bark, "Who do I have to whack with the Sticks of Infamy to get some service around here?  Come on, Lady, get the lead out!"

Of course he wasn't pleased that we had to hit Papa Gino's.  And yes, our favorite Papa Gino's family was there.  As I was so concerned about the R.A. losing it in the restaurant I didn't even make eye contact with them.  I just wanted to get the Hell out Dodge.

By the time we hit the McDonald's drive thru I thought the R.A. was going to jump into the drive thru window and grab the fries himself. When the order came I reached around and handed him the bag of fries. He descended on it with all the fervor of an junky on heroin.  I didn't care.  I got to enjoy a "yowl free" drive home - I actually got to hear the radio!

Not for those with delicate constitutions

The R.A. woke up in a foul mood.  Although I don't speak the language I know what was spewing from his mouth were alien profanities.  Upon being let out of his room he stomped around the second floor like a mad man, wildly yowling.  As he approached my bedroom where the lights were on the R.A. screeched, "No! No! No!" and then stomped over to the light switch.  He was so intent on his task that he tripped and nearly took a header into the wall.  Luckily I was there to catch him.  He thanked me by growling at me and gesturing for me to turn off the light.  Of course I obeyed as I didn't want to increase his wrath.  The R.A. would not allow any lights on and at one point tried to cover over a window to block any light coming in from outside, not that there was much as it is a gray and cloudy day.  As I showered in the dark I decided fuzzy legs were better than nicked legs and forfeited shaving.  Plus, tomorrow is supposed to be frigidly cold so the extra layer of warmth will be most welcome. Even in the dark I can find a ray of hope (just don't tell the R.A. as this would no doubt infuriate him.)

Fortunately, as the morning progressed his nastiness abated.  By the time I returned home from taking his sister to gymnastics the R.A. was downright pleasant.  Perhaps this was due to him working out whatever issues were bothering him or maybe because his father took him to McDonald's at 10:30 AM this morning for chicken nuggets and french fries.

My husband said the kid at the window at McDonald's tried to tell him that it wasn't time for lunch items.  That kid didn't know that we are well-schooled in local McDonald's schedules.  My husband informed him that lunch started being served at 10:30 AM and that it was after 10:30 AM - it was 10:33 AM.  Miraculously my husband got his chicken nuggets and fries almost immediately.  I think the manager probably recognized our car and said, "Aw, hell.  It's those people.  Get them what they want and get them out of here."  Either that or there's a poster in the staff area telling staff we are major P.I.A.'s and to just give us what we want so we leave, the sooner the better.  Frankly, we spend so much money at McDonald's we ought to be on the corporate Christmas card list.

This afternoon my husband took our daughter to a birthday party at a local roller rink (you should see him "Shoot the Duck!")  My mother and I decided to take the R.A. out to lunch with us at the only non-McDonald's place that the R.A. will permit.

We got off to what could have been a rocky start by sitting in a completely different section from where we usually sit.  Initially the R.A. just walked through the restaurant door and proceeded to that section not paying any mind to the people that were already occupying those tables.  When I called to him he stumbled over in a great state of confusion.  I tried to lead the R.A. over to our table but he kept walking in circles as he tried to both follow me and head toward our usual section.  It's like he was saying, "Yes, I do want to eat french fries but I need to sit at one of our tables to do that.  I don't know if I can eat french fries over there."  Finally, slowly and with an air of uncertainty, the R.A. made his way to the table.  He hesitated for a moment, looked at me for clarification and eventually climbed into the booth.  The R.A. looked around for a bit as if trying to acclimate himself to his newer and more exotic surroundings.  He then bounced on his knees a few times and then smiled, enjoying the lift he got.  No doubt there was more lift in that seat as we'd never sat there before so the springs still had a lot of spring to them.

The restaurant staff is so used to us that the R.A. expected them to bring the french fries the minute he sat down.  As this did not happen he kept looking over at the pick up window.  Any time any wait person walked by our table he'd look at them with an expression that clearly read, "Hey, where are the french fries?"  One waitress tried to talk to him but the R.A. was so distracted by checking out the pick up window that he couldn't be engaged.  She finally gave up and exchanged pleasantries with my mother.

Despite having french fries for breakfast, the R.A. pounced on his fries as if he were a starving man.  It's only due to the grace of the Kitchen God and texture issues that the R.A. didn't bite the waitress' arm as she placed the plate of fries on the table.  He didn't let a little thing like the fact that the fries were still steaming hot prevent him from attempting to eat a fry.  They were so hot that the R.A. would pick up a fry and immediately drop it due to the heat.  This occupied him for several minutes until the fries were at least not blister-inducing hot as he nibbled them.

Usually lunch out with the R.A. isn't so much a leisurely meal as a food challenge.  Typically the R.A. is bouncing on his seat, brandishing ketchup laden fries, and yowling loudly.  When he's like that we're actively shoveling food into our mouths because we don't know how much time we have to eat before he starts throwing things.  We're not able to converse because our mouths are full and we barely have time to breathe let alone chat.  Not to mention that even if we wanted to, the R.A.'s caterwaulings are so loud that we can't hear each other over the din.  Nothing like a pleasant meal out!  It's too bad Adam Richman isn't doing those food challenges any more.  I would love him to take on the Reluctant Astronaut's Lunch o' Pain (antacid not included!)

The R.A. was so content and quiet that my mother and I were actually able to eat our own meals and engage in polite conversation.  It was too good to be true and just goes to show you how unrelentingly stupid we are.  We should have known that the R.A. was setting us up.  The meal was almost concluded when we heard it.  We both immediately stopped talking and all attention focused on the R.A.  The "it" I refer to is the "gag of possible reverse peristalsis," a.k.a. throwing up.  The minute we hear it, under any conditions, we stop whatever we are doing and rush to the R.A.  We hold our breaths as we watch him.  Will he or won't he?  The suspense is palpable.  The initial gag is really more of a harbinger of possible doom.  So we wait and subsequent gags come, spaced intermittently.  Unfortunately longer spaces between gags or even dwindling gags are no indication of whether a barfing is coming.  At home when the gagging starts we usually scoop him up and rush him to the bath tub where he stands and gags.  If we can manage it we also start to remove his clothes.  When we're out and about we don't have this "luxury." Today as the R.A. gagged my mother and I started gathering up any napkins we had on the table and I situated plates in front of the R.A.  Almost immediately the R.A. started throwing up.  The trick in these situations is damage control.  I bent his head over the dish to keep him from getting sick on the table or seat.  Initially I was managing it quite neatly but then the R.A. kept trying to put his hands up in front of his face therefore some vomit got on his hands and shirt.  But, I am proud to say, I did keep it from getting on the seat and table.  Once he finished I then began cleaning him up as well as the dish and napkins we used during the "situation."  It was done with a well practiced military precision which included obtaining a bag for soiled napkins, cleaning off the barfed on dishes, two trips to the bathroom to obtain wet paper towels and disposal of the bag. The whole incident, from first gag to last bathroom trip took less than 10 minutes.  Clearly this was not my first rodeo.  My husband and I have this thing down to a science.  One time when we were at the 99 and the R.A. started, my husband actually caught the vomit in his own hand while we scurried for napkins.

The wait staff was amazed by the whole thing.  They were concerned that the R.A. was sick from a bug.  Nope.  Just felled by a french fry which caused him to choke.  Damn that sensitive gag reflex!  Before  we left the R.A. was once again bouncing on his seat demanding "Feh fies! Feh fies!"  Even if he hadn't, my mother and I had had enough and we left.  I've only got so much "vomit" magic in me.

Parry and Thrust

The R.A. has been feeling even more dictatory-ish lately.  This is evidenced by his perpetual use of the Stick of Infamy.  At this point it's like an extension of his arm.  Not only does he (toe) walk around all waking hours with it but also brings it with him to bed.  If we try to send him to bed without it he will keen until we let him out of his room so he can retrieve it.  It is his favorite cuddle toy.

As stated in an earlier blog posting, the family just accepts the Stick of Infamy.  Like so many of the R.A.'s penchants, we learn to adapt and live despite it.  We've become quite good at continuing whatever tasks we're involved in while simultaneously bobbing and weaving - eating, watching television, reading, talking on the phone, cooking, sharpening steak knives, bathing.  A few weekends ago we even managed to play an entire game of Looney Tunes Trouble while dodging the Stick of Infamy.  Frankly, it's gotten to the point that  we don't even notice the flailing stick or that we're mamboing around it.  We only become aware of it when a "civilian" points it out to us.  This happened last weekend when a friend came to visit.  In the middle of our conversation she paused and said, "Um, do you think that's safe?"  I was bewildered.  What wasn't safe?  She gestured to the Stick of Infamy which was being flourished wildly, inches from her face.  "Don't worry," I reassured her.  "As long as you duck it's fine."  For some reason I don't think she agreed.

Whenever he's brandishing the Stick of Infamy, the R.A. is caterwauling furiously.  Sometimes he is lecturing us and at other times giving us severe dressing downs, highlighting our innumerable short-comings.  He also uses the Stick of Infamy to get his point across.  Right now the R.A. is sitting next to me on the couch.  As I type he is repeating, "See-mo.  See-mo."*  For emphasis he is simultaneously whacking the couch cushion that I'm sitting on with the Stick of Infamy.

In addition to being a vehicle of authority, the R.A. must also use the Stick of Infamy as part of our training.  After all we certainly are  much more nimble as a result of it.  Maybe he's training us for some sort of Special Ops program.

The other night as we watched the R.A. pace and pontificate, my mother and I chatted about his attachment to the Stick of Infamy.  She reminisced about an earlier attachment he had to her cane (pre-Stick of Infamy.)  My mother had her original hip replacement surgery three years ago.  During that time the R.A. became enamoured with her cane.  When she wasn't looking the R.A. would stealthily creep over to her and whisk the cane away.  Sometimes he would hide it and it was a real challenge for my husband and me to find it.  One time my mother was standing at the sink in the kitchen and he snuck in, swiped the cane, and disappeared.  This effectively stranded my mother who was clinging to the counter shouting for her cane.  Oh, those good times!  The best!  You can see why we love to take trips down Memory Lane (or when it comes to our lives, "Nightmare Alley.")

My daughter wondered if the R.A. would shift his affections to his Nana's cane and tried to hand it to him.  I quickly intercepted it.  Today it would be the cane.  Next he would graduate to his grandmother's walker.  It would be a nightmare trying to dodge that, not to mention just plain odd.  And the Kitchen God knows we are not odd.

Okay, I need to sign off because the R.A. is playing fetch with his sister using the Stick of Infamy.  I'd better intervene because I don't think she's retrieving it fast enough for his tastes and he's getting extremely annoyed.

*Nemo meaning his Nemo gummies.  In his charming way the R.A. was saying, "Oh, Mother Dearest, would you be a love and fetch me some of those delicious Nemo gummies?"

So Young, So Angry

The R.A. woke up today in a rage.  He has never been happy with his current mission. At best he tolerates his Earth assignment and all of its outrageous accouterments.  Some days his level of tolerance is higher than others.  Today was a looowwww tolerance level.  The R.A. probably woke up and his first thought, at realizing that yes, he was still on this Kitchen God forsaken planet, was, I hate those 'effin' people and I hate this 'effin' planet.  So he tantrumed to let out all of his resentments and frustrations.

Responding to the furious yowlings, his father let him out of his room.  Fortunately the R.A. had "slept in" this morning (meaning 6 AM - YIPPEEE!).  As the R.A. passed his father he barked  out his breakfast order and "immediately if not sooner" was implicitly implied.  Knowing not to brook any nonsense, my husband scurried down to the kitchen to do his master's biding.  It was there that I ran into him as I was returning from the gym. 

My husband bustled around the kitchen.  We knew not to dilly dally with chit chat and risk antagonizing the R.A.  My husband headed back upstairs while I remained downstairs packing snacks and lunches.  A few minutes later I heard the R.A. caterwauling as he made his way down the stairs.  As my mother was sleeping on the couch I was afraid the R.A.'s migration was permanent and would wake her up.  A favorite activity of the R.A. is to stand over a sleeping Nana and stim his fingers wildly, mere centimeters from her face or worse, brandish the "Stick of Infamy" centimeters from her face.  It looks like he's doing some sort of alien Voo Doo on her.  Most times she sleeps through it. My fears were quickly allayed as the R.A. had only come downstairs to fetch the "Stick of Infamy."  Once he retrieved it he headed back up the stairs, wildly waving the stick.  I knew from his determined gait that my husband was in for it.

Several minutes later I ascended to the second floor to hear my husband say, "You have crackers.  They're right there."  The R.A. then responded, quite firmly, "Quackah!"  I was met in the hall by my husband who was on his way back downstairs.  "I told him he had crackers but he doesn't want those crackers."  I nodded sympathetically.  Many times a day we are confronted by the R.A. wanting something, you give it but he won't accept it but will accept a complete duplicate replacement.  It must have to do with his Napoleonic complex.

While my husband was gone the R.A. and I engaged in a rousing and somewhat hostile game of Dammit Turn Off That Light-I Will Not, I Need It to See (DTOTL-IWNINITS). Sometimes, when his level of earth toleration is high, the R.A. will at least permit us to close the bathroom door and turn on the light, even though he can see the light under the crack in the door.  This morning, however, it was not allowed.  I did attempt to close the door a couple of times and turn on the light but the R.A. kept charging the door.  I finally surrendered and finished brushing my teeth in the dark (I'm pretty certain I did spit into the sink.)  When I finally resigned myself to brushing in the dark, the R.A. still ran up to the bathroom and reached for the light switch.  He stopped abruptly when he realized I hadn't turned the light back on.  At that point he withdrew his hand from the light switch, composed himself and waved the "Stick of Infamy" at me and yowled which I'm sure translated into, "Good, no light.  And see that you leave it off.  Carry on."

I wimped out when it came to showering in the dark and while I was showering the R.A. and his dad played their own action packed game of  DTOTL-IWNINITS with the bathroom light.  Fortunately my husband won the round and I basked in the luxury of being able to see the soap and shampoo.

The R.A. was determined to be the ultimate victor in DTOTL-IWNINITS and while I was blow drying my hair turned off the light again.  Unfortunately as I moved to turn the light back on I knocked over my hot curling iron which landed on my big toe, eliciting my own tortured yowls.  My husband rushed to the bathroom to see what happened.  The minute he turned the light on, the R.A. turned it off.  My husband flicked it back on and roaring ferociously, the R.A. turned it off.  Meanwhile I was supporting myself on the bathroom counter while balancing on my good foot. As I teetered there I thought that perhaps the R.A. was so passionate because we had hit the playoff rounds of DTOTL-IWNINITS.  He is extremely competitive.

By the time the whole light situation was settled I had hobbled off to continue getting ready for work.  Luckily the rest of my preparation didn't require lighting, well actually it did but I thought the heck with it.  I didn't want to risk losing my one good foot.

Birthday Salutations

Yesterday was the R.A.'s sister's birthday.  Ever the party animal, the R.A. made sure to add his imprint on the day.

Initially I think the R.A. was under the impression that the special occasion had to do with him.  He spent the first part of the night standing in a laundry basket, brandishing the "Stick of Infamy" and yowling animatedly.  He was engaged in some serious speech-making a la Mussolini which is why I think he thought it was all about him.  The R.A. was clad in his usual backward/footless footie pajamas which only added to his fearsomeness.  Did I mention that the laundry basket was balancing quite precariously on the stairs?  The more invigorated the R.A. became, the more the basket rocked.  Every time my husband and I removed him from the basket and then moved the basket from the stairs, the R.A. became very agitated and promptly retrieved the basket, setting it back on the stairs, all the while caterwauling reprimands at us.  I finally tucked the basket out of his sight.  Greatly infuriated, the R.A. leaped back on the stairs.  He yowled furiously and as I turned away he bopped me on the head with the "Stick of Infamy."  When I turned to confront him he actually looked sheepish so instead of being upset with him I was pleased that he made the connection that what he did was wrong. I'm sure he had no clue as to why it was wrong but let's not get caught up in the details. Get your victories where and how you can.  Kitchen God knows we have so few of them.

As it was my daughter's birthday, she got to select where we ordered dinner from.  *Amazingly* enough, she chose one of my mother's favorite take-out places.  As my husband doesn't know where the place is located, it fell on me to pick up dinner.  Depressed at the prospect of going out by myself I skipped schlepped out the door in great jubilation  sadness.

While I was out the R.A. ascended to the second floor, no doubt still miffed at having his laundry basket confiscated.  After a while my daughter headed upstairs as well only to discover that the R.A. had found her birthday presents and unwrapped each and every one.  According to my husband he was alerted to the dire situation by our daughter's blood curdling screams. 

This time the R.A. was unrepentant.  He was a little disgusted by his sister's behavior which no doubt he felt was overly dramatic.  I'm sure the R.A. was thinking, You know what?  You've spent the last 5 years getting me interested in unwrapping things.  So now I do so (with great gusto and finesse I might add) and you're p.o.'d.  What gives?  When confronted by wrapped gifts either I go back to ignoring them or I unwrap them.  You can't have it both ways.

Fortunately/unfortunately, the R.A.'s sister is somewhat used to the R.A.'s antics.  I think she also looked at it with the "half full" perspective and was happy to have presents, some of which were what she asked for.  By the time I arrived home things had calmed down and she calmly relayed what had transpired, concluding with, "When I realized what he had done I stopped looking at the presents so that I wouldn't know what they were.  I only saw one or maybe two. No, three.  I saw three.  But I wasn't trying to look but it was really hard to yell at him and not look at the presents."  Then she shrugged as if to say, What are you gonna do?

My husband was also upset because he was very proud of his wrapping job.  He is the official gift wrapper of the family and not only takes pride in his work but that he does so in an efficient manner.  The only thing he said to me, with a sad shake of his head was, "It took me over 20 minutes to wrap those gifts."

During dinner the R.A. remained up in his parents' room.  By now he had probably determined that the festivities were in fact not for him so why bother mixing with the unwashed masses. We managed to get him downstairs for the singing of "Happy Birthday."  When my husband entered the room with the lit birthday cake, the R.A. did freeze with that "deer in headlights" look but once he realized we were not tormenting him with the flaming cake but rather his sister, he visibly relaxed.  Then the R.A. very carefully watched his sister's reaction to the burning cake.  He seemed somewhat surprised that not only was she not afraid of the birthday cake but that she appeared delighted by it.  The R.A. kept looking at her with an expression that said, Really? You're not freaked out by this?  Not even a little bit?  Not even by the singing?  Because I think that's what really really freaks me out.

After the cake was cut the R.A. said "Cake" which my husband took to mean he wanted a piece.  My mother and I thought the R.A. was simply labeling it.  The piece we cut for him remained untouched and he only made to shove it onto the floor once which shows his tolerance level for birthday cake is increasing.  At this rate he will be able to endure sitting next to a lit birthday cake in time for his 21st birthday.  Party on, dudes!

*I suspect the restaurant choice was made after Nana spent a vigorous weekend lobbying for her favorite.  When my daughter announced her restaurant selection her tone did sound like that of a person who had been brainwashed.