Ready to Rumble

Those who read this blog understand (I hope!) that it is not about making fun of the R.A. but rather to convey how tough an autism driven world is and also just how excruciatingly stupid the R.A.'s parents are.  Most days my husband and I are just one Stooge away from being the New Three Stooges.  Actually, we are such dimwits that we don't need a third Stooge.  It seems the smarter the R.A. gets the stupider we get.

The humor in this blog is a stress reliever and believe me, my family needs it.  If we didn't laugh at some of the situations we find ourselves in, we would dissolve into a puddle of tears.  Autism does not just affect the R.A. but the entire family.  As I've said before, it impinges on the entire family, dictating what we do, how we do, where we do, when we do.  Sometimes it is hard and sometimes it is painful.  And sometimes, seemingly out of the blue, I get what I call the "Big Blue Meanies."  These are moments when I look into the R.A.'s big hazel eyes and I am overwhelmed by such sadness that I cry.  I cry because I wish autism weren't holding him hostage.  I cry because autism won't allow us to really know who he is.  I cry because I am full of anguish, worried about his future.  I cry because I can't live forever and take care of him forever and that scares the shit out of me.  I cry because I love him totally and completely and powerfully and yet am so helpless to protect him from this villain known as autism.  So sue me if I would rather laugh than cry.  If I laugh, the Autism Monster isn't all that powerful.

I have described the R.A. in this blog and he isn't exactly attempting to hide his alien tendencies.  Unlike Superman, the R.A. does not have a milquetoast alter ego that enables him to seamlessly blend into earth society.  If the R.A. could verbally communicate his sentiments on this matter I believe it would be, "Screw earth society!" accompanied by a few furious yowls.  In some ways the R.A. is also the Liberace of aliens in that he is over the top (but with less rhinestones and feathers.)  No subtle stimming for him.  If he is going to stim, it is going to be BIG - lots of loud caterwauls, grandiose hand flapping and vigorous toe jumping.  He does not need a neon t-shirt that says, "Hey, check me out! I am different!"  In short, his is not the type of activity that one usually sees at the market or your local restaurant or church.  His activities often call attention to him and unfortunately some people can be real jack wagons about it.  Unfortunately for them.

Those that know me, would not describe me as a confrontational person.  I'm actually extremely shy and reserved. I am not one to stand up for myself.   If someone cuts me in line in a store I will grumble (really, really softly so he or she doesn't hear me) but won't assert myself.  Much to my husband's annoyance I hate to send food back or complain about service at a restaurant because I don't want to make a fuss and I know they will only spit in our food.  If I do complain I will also apologize profusely because I don't want people to be upset with me (or spit in my food.)  The boldest thing about me is a bathing suit tucked in the bowels of a drawer that I bought last year that I immediately regretted.

When it comes to my own person I may be cowardly but be warned, not when it comes to my kids.`  The minute I perceive the slightest mean spirited smirk or hear remarks such as, "What's wrong with that kid?" or "Why don't they take him out of here?" a couple of switches go off in my brain.  One switch shuts down the timidity.  The other switch turns on the bad ass mother f@#$er.  If you are ever around when this happens, duck and cover.  My husband will attest that it is terrifying, which is telling, as he is not someone who backs down when he feels he has been slighted.  When the "Switch" occurs I can see my husband cringe and attempt to warn the offenders.  Then I shoot him a certain look and he knows he had better get the hell out of my way or be caught up in the wrath.

On one occasion my family was enjoying some outside time at a park (post allergy season).  There was a sandbox that the R.A. was really liking, probably enjoying the novel sensation of toe jumping on sand.  A mother was there with her two daughters and she looked at the R.A. like he was not only Godzilla but also transporting the Plague.  Frantically she gathered up her children and scurried them not only out of the sand box but out of the park.  I was more than a little offended and chased after her yelling, "Hey, Lady!  He has autism and it's not contagious!"  I actually ran after her SUV as it peeled out of the parking lot with my husband barreling after me begging me to stop.

And then there's church.  Let's talk about church, shall we?  Gandhi once said, "I'll become a Christian when I meet one."   Some of the most un-Christian-like people you will ever meet are in church and it seems most of them belong to the church in our town which is why we belong to another parish in another city.  No exaggeration but every time we have taken the R.A. to the church in our town we have had an R.A. related problem.  Every single time.  One time when a woman stupidly hissed, "What's wrong with that kid?  They ought to get him out of here"  I practically leaped over the pew while growling, "He has autism.  You got a problem with that?"  I probably would have given her a poke in the eye but my husband is extremely strong and managed to hold me down.  Another time, after enduring unkind remarks through most of Mass, I turned to the couple behind me and said sweetly, "He has autism and we would be happy to answer any questions you have about autism.  I do find we always get such a reception at this church that we joined another and are only here because we missed Mass at our own parish.  Thank you so much for not changing our perception of this church."  My husband looked like he wanted to hide under the pew but unfortunately he has bad knees and it would be pretty tough for him to crouch down there.  It's not a good church experience when you spend most of Mass fighting the urge to slap people.  Not very spiritually uplifting.

The other night we took the family to the mall because we had been experiencing a very rainy day and did a lot of indoor time together.   Now I enjoy the whining, caterwauling, illegal climbing and other high jinx as much as anyone and illustrated this by remarking  to my husband, "Get these people out of my house because I can't stand another moment with them."  Much to my dismay he agreed but only if I accompanied them.  As noted in an earlier blog, the R.A. is a big fan of the mall.  I think it's like a freak zoo for him.  He is so engrossed in people watching that he remains seated during an entire meal.  It is awesome and one of the few instances where my husband and I can eat a meal uninterrupted and, here's a bit of a bonus, our food is still warm. 

That night, after we ate, my husband removed himself to make use of the rest room.  As the children and I sat I became aware of a group of young men at a nearby table.  Initially I became aware of them because they were eating ice cream and I don't get to eat it that often and therefore am easily distracted by its appearance.  But then I realized that they were laughing at the R.A.  Switches On!  I stood up so fast my chair slid across the waxed floor and into the table behind us - luckily it was unoccupied.  My daughter, recognizing the signs of an impending ass whupping, begged, "Oh, no, Mommy!"  I smiled at her and said I would be right back and to keep an eye on the R.A.

I high tailed my way over to the crowded table.  I don't know who looked more surprised by my appearance, me or the young men.  Let me begin by just mentioning a couple of things: 

• They looked like the junior boys section of Hell's Angels.  
•  I realized that even though I was standing and they were sitting, they were still taller than I was. 
•  I didn't care about the above two realizations. 

Luckily they were so stunned to see a middle aged quasi midget woman approach they were silent.  I explained that I saw they had noticed the R.A.  I told them he had autism which is why he was acting the way he was.  I then said I would be glad to talk to them about autism.  At that point one of them began stammering that they weren't laughing at the R.A. and that they would never do that.  Another one blathered that his cousin had Down's Syndrome so he would never make fun of anyone who had something.  I let them verbally stumble around for a few more cringe worthy moments and then  I smiled and asked, "We're good, right?"  Suddenly adopting autistic tendencies themselves, they did not make eye contact and remained silent.  I asked again, relentlessly cheerful but with an edge in my voice and they all mumbled, "Yes."  I thanked them for their time and headed back to my seat.  They immediately left the food court.

My husband returned from the bathroom and took the children on the food court merry go round.  At this point my brain began to digest what I had just done and I was like, "Holy crap!  Did I just bully future residents of Cell Block 8?  They're going to make shivs out of their ice cream spoons and attack me in the mall parking lot!"

Although I am usually very good at guarding my emotions (not ever), my husband sensed something was wrong.  The give away might have been my incoherent babbling about shivs and the violent shaking of my hands.  Eventually my husband was able to translate my ramblings and got the story.  He shook his head and probably made a mental note never to leave me unattended in public.

You have been warned, America.

The Spoils of War

My daughter was assigned a "book report bag" project.  For those lucky enough not to be in the know, instead of composing the traditional written report on paper, one decorates a bag with pictures relevant to the book and puts inside the bag props representing the culture of the the book's characters.  I like to think of it as a book report for the illiterate.  It reminds me of how back in the middle ages since nobody could read, priests used pictures in churches' stained glass to teach people about the Bible. This un-book un-report is due the day after Memorial Day and like most parents I did not relish ruining a holiday weekend working with/cajoling/threatening/hollering at my daughter as we tackled the project.  Rather I elected to ruin Mother's Day and we spent a lovely afternoon replete with whining, ill conceived defiance, and ultimately sullen and resentful cooperation.  Pretty much the usual Mother's Day stuff.

Despite the project's stresses, once my daughter and I finished it and ceased snarling at each other, I stood back to admire our work.  I made my husband come and admire it and  he wisely commented about how great it was. He then asked when it was due.  I crowed about how early we completed it.  No last minute scouring the house for tape and ultimately using chewing gum to stick stuff on for us.  Oh, no.  We utilized actual  tape and glue because I had done actual "pre-project" materials shopping.  My husband let me blather on for a bit and then delivered the knock out punch -  how long did we think the bag would last in our house?  It literally stopped me in mid brag.  Crap.  I had made a serious tactical error and left the precious book bag vulnerable and exposed to the enemy.

Those of you who have read this blog understand that our house isn't so much a home as a war zone.  Because the R.A. is hell bent on world domination, our house is in a constant state of war and we are perpetually under threat of attack if not being directly attacked.  Although most of his methods are unorthodox they are, none the less, potent and effective (sleep deprivation, light deprivation, food deprivation, matching outfit deprivation.)  The sheer relentless nature of it has exhausted us and we have tried several times to surrender but the R.A. despises losers and only punishes us more aggressively.  As the saying goes. "All's fair in love and war" and that goes for our house, particularly our hard wood floors and white walls.  The R.A. uses a lot of psychological warfare on us and nothing is off limits.  The more you treasure something or the more important the item the greater the chances of its destruction.  The book bag was a sitting duck.

Due to a cocktail of panic and stupidity I proposed that perhaps the R.A. would not notice the bag and if he did would be uninterested.  Apparently the R.A. must have been lurking nearby because, as if on cue, he came careening into the room at full throttle but shrieked to a hard stop in front of the bag at which point he yowled in ecstasy and attempted to grab it.  Usually the R.A. prefers stealth mode when it comes to destructive attacks but in this case his enthusiasm got the better of him and betrayed  his target.  My husband and I exchanged dismayed looks and immediately began planning  a safe haven for the bag.

Initially my husband suggested the very top of a 5 tiered shelf in our bedroom.  I pointed out that location would only be doubly attractive to the R.A. - a chance to climb and gain access to forbidden fruit.  We might as well hand him the bag and encourage him to have at it.

After much discussion we finally decided to keep it in our daughter's room.  It did have an outside lock on the door and Fishy Noodles II did survive for more than a year inside so the room was a somewhat secure location.

For the most part it was a good plan.  But it did mean we had to live in state of heightened vigilance.  That door must remain locked at all times, except when occupied and I have to admit that even in that situation I would have rather it remained locked. My daughter was disturbed by the prospect of being locked in her room and my husband managed to talk me out of the locked at all times route.  Reluctantly I relented but we stressed the importance of keeping the door closed and locked when unoccupied.  Not trusting the R.A. a whit I told her even if she gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom to lock the bedroom door while she was out.  She looked at me with an expression that clearly said she thought I finally went around the bend.  "But he'll be asleep in his secured room," she stated.  But on this I would not give in.  The R.A. is fiendishly clever.

True to his form, the R.A. took any and all opportunities to invade his sister's bedroom.  His usual M.O. was to lie in wait in his own bedroom and once the coast was clear to creep into the room.  One of us would notice how quiet the house had become and, in a panic, go on a hunt for the R.A.  We would find him  in front of his sister's bureau, on top of which sat the coveted bag.  Fortunately we always got to him before he managed to grab the bag.  Often we would discover him flicking the bag with this fingers and jumping up and down on his tip toes.  Unlike the traditional toe jump/finger flick move it was not accompanied by the requisite yowling.  After all this mission relied on stealth.

After a week of attempting to keep the bag safe, we were starting to feel the emotional and physical strain.  We just couldn't keep living that way and decided to send the bag into school several days early.  True we ran the risk of an inadvertent school accident but as I explained to my husband at least the teacher would see that the bag existed.  I just wanted the damn thing out of the house and for our lives to go back to "normal." 

As we had invested so much time and energy into protecting the bag we probably elevated its significance.  Not trusting our daughter to transport the bag to school unmolested, my husband dropped the bag off at school.  When he appeared in the school office with the bag (which was tucked securely inside another bag) he explained the project was being dropped off to avoid becoming wartime booty. The secretary was like, "Okkaayyy," clearly thinking we were odder than the school originally thought we were.  My husband told me he wanted to take the bag right to our daughter's classroom and even though he lobbied hard the secretary would not let him.  Finally she pretty much had to swear an oath that she would bring it, unharmed,  to the classroom.  My husband also said that after he reluctantly handed the bag to the woman he stood there expecting her to bring the bag immediately to the classroom.  Finally, acknowledging the serious level of my family's insanity, she realized he was not leaving until she did.  So she did.  My husband watched her.  He reported that as the secretary walked down the hallway she kept glancing back nervously.  I think at this point she was glad to escape him.

So, yes, maybe we have created yet more evidence that we are a family of freaks but by the Kitchen God we did our duty and protected that lame ass project.  War is hell.  Vaporization now!