When We Last Left Our Heroes...

When we last left our magnificently hapless heroes, they were in the throes of a gargantuan panic that threatened to make them even stupider than they were…

To recap:  The RA had discovered a new love of artistic expression using only very specific natural and organic compounds.  Our story continues…

Fortunately, just around this time my husband caught a documentary about a family that had several children on the spectrum. (My husband said he found it comforting because after watching it he felt we were the lucky ones.)  A few of those children had issues with disrobing so the parents would buy the kids footie pajamas and then cut the feet off and put them on the kids backwards so that the kids couldn’t get at the zippers. Oh my Kitchen God!  Sheer brilliance! We immediately copied this idea. And it worked. We were elated.

For a couple of days.  

Don’t ask us how, but the RA, despite the zipper now in the back, managed to unzip himself.  At first we thought maybe the issue was the PJ’s, something weird with the zipper. To make certain we tried another pair.  And another. And another, etc. (By about the third pair, intellectually we understood it wasn’t the PJ’s but we weren’t ready to admit that because then it meant we had to find another solution.)  All had the same result. We were devastated. Why couldn’t he use his powers for good?

Then my husband got the bright idea of cutting holes in the PJ’s in the back collar on each side of the zipper.  String would then be threaded through the holes and the zipper so that the RA could not unzip himself. Sure, it meant that every morning we had to cut the string like one does on a slab of pot roast but it worked!  

For a while.  

One morning we discovered another poo-tacular masterpiece and its birthday suit clad artist.  Did he break the zipper? Too pedestrian a solution. How dare you insult the immense intellect of an evil genius!  No. Examination of the PJ’s revealed zipper and string still in tact. Nothing was torn. That little stinker (again literally) had managed to contort his wispy little frame out of his PJ’s via the neck hole.  Yes, he was that skinny. For a visual think ginormous round lollipop on a very thin stick. For authenticity add hair to lolly and include many random cowlicks. May I introduce you to the most cunning future evil dictator, the RA?

My husband and I were crushed.  We had gotten spoiled with our sometimes up to three hours of uninterrupted sleep a night.  Now it was gone. We actually wept.

The RA’s dad was not going to easily surrender our hard won slumber.  In a desperate yet determined burst of energy, he took to the internet to see if there was anything we could do.  It was then that he discovered that the RA’s latest thing actually had a name and was a condition that wasn’t unique to him.  Ah, good old Autism. It always makes sure to keep the magic alive with its many surprise developments. Unfortunately none of these little gifts are ever very good or what you’ve always or ever wanted and what’s more unfortunate is that they never come with receipts.

Through his research, the RA’s dad discovered there was a company that actually manufactured special suits for children that prevented them from disrobing because the suit was worn over clothing. The suits looked like those surfer wet suits that go to the knee.  They zipped in the back. There was also a more secure version that had a snap similar to those on fanny packs but over the zipper.

SOLD!

Being well acquainted with the RA’s diabolical genius, we went for the bad ass version.

This special article of clothing was fondly christened the “poop suit.”  For double protection it was worn over a pair of backward footie-less pajamas.  Anytime the RA was placed in his lair, at bedtime or during the day (for a caretaker emergency like needing to use the bathroom), he was kitted out in this special ensemble.  It was very much function over style. And it worked great.

For awhile.  

One morning we woke to find Pablo Poopcaso, covered from head to toe in poo, had smeared another magnum opus.  This time our grief was so acute we actually keened.

My husband contacted the company where we had purchase the poop suit thinking there was probably an upgraded version.  The very nice Canadian lady cheerfully told my husband that there was indeed another more secure edition. She then began describing the suit we currently had.  My husband let her finish her spiel and then said that was the suit we owned. The nice Canadian lady was pretty gobsmacked. “But that’s our most secure and most high end suit,” she sputtered.  My husband asked what other families did when their children were able to liberate themselves from that suit. The nice Canadian lady said she didn’t know because nobody had ever managed to free himself from the suit.  My husband said the nice Canadian lady had immense difficulty wrapping her head around the whole thing. By the end of the conversation her mind was so completely blown that she pretty much kept muttering, “But I don’t understand.  Nobody ever gets out of that suit.” My husband finally had to hang up on her in mid mutter.

There goes the overachieving RA, again.  Doing something that no one in the ENTIRE continent of North America had ever done.  At this point I was so distraught that I told my husband I envied parents of dumb kids.  Why did the Kitchen God curse us with a genius and an evil one at that? What I wouldn’t give for a paste eating underachiever!

Again, my husband was not going to give up without a fight.  We had come too far to give up those hard won two and a half to three hours of almost uninterrupted nightly sleep.  It was our darkest hour and not just because it was literally in the middle of the night. As Winston Churchill spoke so inspirationally during Britain’s darkest hour, so too did we:

We shall defend our sleep, whatever the cost may be (as long as it’s not too pricey), we shall fight in the bathroom, we shall fight on the poopy ground, we shall fight on top of the China cabinet and on the upstairs bannister that is missing a few slats due to the RA’s removing of them, we shall fight on top of the TV that is on top of the RA’s dad’s bureau; we shall never surrender.

Or at least we would die trying which at this point I think my husband and I were not completely adverse to because at least we would finally get in a decent nap.

It was while possessed of this fighting spirit that my husband came up with another idea.  Why not modify the poop suit? He sketched out a few ideas and consulted a professional tailor.  Together they devised the Poop Suit 2.0, a magnificent creation that blended aeronautical technology with Arkham Asylum inspired super villain straight jackets.

Basically the tailor sewed a collar over the poop suit’s collar through which we thread a shoelace.  The shoelace was then thread through an opening in the zipper to which was attached a tiny lock. And voila!  The Poop Suit 2.0 (patent pending.)!

The first time we put the RA in the PS 2.0, he was bemused.  He also gave us clearly patronizing looks, “What’s this? Oh, my naive, dim, dolts.  Will you never learn? How long do you think your precious little suit will last?”

After a couple of weeks his arrogant smile turned into a frustrated sneer.  It appeared that the RA had met his match. Now our biggest foe was the key which we sometimes misplaced.

Not one to be bested by his imbecilic parents or a mere piece of clothing, the RA did have moments of revenge.  He had figured out that when his poo presented as a solid stool he could somehow finagle it down his PJ leg and out that way.  That’s true dedication and a real never give up attitude. Fortunately, due to the massive amounts of laxatives and stool softeners pumped into him, those occasions, which we referred to as the  result of doing the “Poop Suit Boogie,” were rare.

Unbelievably, we had conquered the nighttime poo painting workshops.  Believably, no one was more surprised than we were. Well, probably the only other person was the RA.

Oddly enough, poop masterpieces were not our only nocturnal challenge...

Now Where Were We?

Now that we’ve got the celebratory hoo haas about Autism Awareness Month over with, let me continue the saga of how the RA ended up in residency.  Like most old Norse sagas it does involve horned helmets, dragons, walking casts, and poop suits. Ok, maybe no horned helmets or actual dragons are in the tale but I think it could be argued that Autism is as frightening and formidable as any dragon if not more.

So now you’re like, “I get what a walking cast is, but what is this poop suit of which you speak?  Patience, gentle reader. Believe me, by the time I explain it you are going to wish I hadn’t.

Let me ask you a question.  Are you familiar with fecal smearing?  If not, get down on your knees right now and offer a prayer of glorious thanksgiving to the Kitchen God or deity of your choice.  If you wish to go on and live a happy carefree life unscarred by the mental images of fecal smearing, stop reading and go browse your Netflix account.

Fecal smearing is a delightful avocation that fully engages the child’s sensory and tactile experiences as well as providing an opportunity to work on his fine motor skills.  Basically the child poops and then uses the poop like finger paint. I know, fun right?

So in addition to keeping the RA safely contained in his lair, we now had the extra delightful challenge of fecal smearing.  Ok, I lied. It wasn’t delightful. It didn’t help that the RA was an overachiever and very thorough. He would strip, poo, and then get to work.  His preferred canvas was the traditional floor and wall but ever the avant garde artiste, when creating his floor work, his tool of choice was his toes.  Tip: if you want to get in some good smearing, toes are the way to go, especially if, like the RA, you are blessed with monkey toes. There is also the added bonus that when one uses one’s own tootsies, he can then march around the rest of the room leaving poopy paw prints.  The RA’s favorite medium, however, was his own body. After a smear fest he often looked like a brown Braveheart. And probably smelled like a medieval warrior.

For  reluctant astronaut-care, my husband and I worked different shifts, still do.  I work days and he works nights. When it came to taking care of the RA, we used to say that I had the night shift and my husband had the day shift.  The night shift was always a tough gig but with the advent of the RA’s FS, it became an onerous and grueling undertaking. I would put the RA to bed and pray he wouldn’t feel the need to create.  Then I would lurk in the hall outside his room listening for activity and also sniffing the air, hoping to head an episode off at the pass or at least catching it in the earlier stages so there would be less clean up.  Of course that little stinker (literally) was far cleverer than I and much faster. Once I realized the RA had outsmarted me, again, I would have to haul him out of his room, carefully avoiding stepping on/in his masterpiece and attempt to pick up and carry a wriggling, indignant, naked, poo covered artiste without getting part of said masterpiece all over myself.  Let me just say Sisyphus had a less impossible task than I.

After finally making my way out of his room, I would deposit a squirming RA into the tub.  Fortunately it was one of his favorite spots. I would bathe him and leave him to soake. Then, regardless of the time, I would have to get my daughter to sit with him while I cleaned up the masterpiece.  I couldn’t leave the RA alone in the tub for safety purposes. Yes, obviously a child should never be left unattended in a bath but the RA couldn’t be left alone because he always had to up the ante which in this case meant either bolting from the tub soaking wet to climb the China cabinet or climb the shower curtain and/or bathroom fixtures.  My daughter also had to monitor the poo situation while the RA lounged in the tub because while he wouldn’t be caught dead pooing in the toilet, the bath was a completely different story. When this happened my daughter would shriek for me. I would race into the bathroom and tussle a wet and slightly poopish RA from the bath. The RA protested not just his removal and interruption but my nerve at attempting to place him on the despised toilet.  

“Really, Mommy Girl?  On the abhorred toilet?  Are you not paying attention?  The toilet is my mortal enemy! Part of the reason we are in this literal mess is because I detest that thing!”

One of the best things about the endeavor was sometimes we engaged in the entire enterprise more than once in an evening!  Yes, it was as exhausting and as spirit crushing as it sounds. And I’ve given you the less traumatic version of the experience.

This kid got bathed so often it actually took a toll on his alien skin.  Once time my husband took the RA to a doctor’s appointment for some sort of unrelated ailment and the doctor remarked that the RA had remarkably dry skin for someone so young and he was prescribed special skin cream.  It’s a good thing that my husband took the RA that day because as the RA’s main night time spa attendant I probably would have barked, “Hey, you’d have skin that rivaled that of an armadillo if you took 37 showers and baths a week!”

Even though some could argue that we had finally found the RA’s “autism thing” (you know, that extraordinary talent that all people with autism have - think the movie “Rain Man”), the RA’s dad and I were not going to encourage this new artistic calling.  We had to come up with a solution to prevent the RA access to his art supplies. And fast.

Further adding to the merriment (and need for a quick fix) was the RA’s commitment to constipation and utter disdain for the toilet.  This often meant he “withheld” his bowel movements. When tucked in his lair at night the RA would un-withhold his bowel movement. And because he refused to go all day, the RA was holding on to quite a supply of “material.”  My husband and I were amazed that a body so small and scrawny could store so much poo. I swear there are water buffalo out there that couldn’t compete.

Let me tell you, a fun night of pooing, painting, and bathtub frolics really energizes a reluctant astronaut.  So despite the fact that I was utterly debilitated, the RA was fully reinvigorated and ready to party the night away which in this case meant jumping up and down on my bed like a lemur who just ingested sixteen gallons of espresso accompanied by seven dozen extra sugary jelly donuts while yowling manically at the top of one’s lungs.  There’s nothing like a satisfying session of fecal smearing and three showers to get the blood going in the wee hours of the morning.

We had to find a solution.

Who will win in the Un-Great Battle of the Poo?  Will the new “Napoopleon” emerge flappingly victorious?  Or will his harried yet completely incompetent parents stumble across a “Waterpoo” and finally halt the RA’s nocturnal destructions? Or will they just finally die of exhaustion in the attempt?

For the answers to these and other seemingly unrelated and certainly uninteresting questions, stay tuned!

Haul Out the Brass Band and Confetti Cannon

That’s right.  It’s finally here - Happy Autism Awareness Month or as we call in my house, April, because EVERY month we live autism awareness and spread that awareness wherever we go much to the horror and confusion of those left in our wake.

During April my family especially takes the “Awareness” part to heart.  We are of the opinion that since “Awareness “ is right there in the title, it’s our duty to go out into the world spreading the “Awareness” and we really go whole hog.  The louder and flappier the better.

People new to Autism Awareness Month might be uncertain as what to do during this celebratory month.  While there are some generally accepted traditions and practices such as lighting things up blue and slapping puzzle piece magnets declaring you love someone with autism everywhere, there is still much room to create one’s own expressions of Autism Awareness.  Like they say, “If you’ve met one person with Autism, you’ve met one person with Autism” so your expression can be as unique as your own family’s Autism Experience. The beauty of it is, like Autism there are no hard and fast rules. And if there were, like Autism, these rules would be arbitrarily subject to change and with no explanation.  

The main thing during AAM, is to turn any and all occasions, from the informal to the formal, into opportunities to spread that awareness.  Since it is AAM and we only get the one sanctioned month, it is important to do it up big.

I think during AAM there ought to be business cards available for families to hand out during these “awareness moments.”  They should read something like this:

Happy Autism Awareness Month!  

We are so thrilled you are celebrating this special time with us and sincerely hope you have enjoyed being made aware as much as we have enjoyed making you aware.

We’re here. We have Autism.  Get used to it. Or get out.

You may still be uncertain as how to proceed so I’ve come up with suggestions based on my family’s experiences but feel free to adapt to fit your situation:

At the Movies

The R.A. is a great fan of the movies.  Well, not so much the movies but the seats which are now recliners.  One of the last times we went, the R.A. proceeded to engage in “recliner gymnastics” performing handstands and reverse somersalts in the seat.  While tumbling around he also engaged in a one man yodeling demonstration. Due to the hardy exertion of these endeavors he also took many well deserved breaks that consisted of jumping up and down rigorously while loudly demanding snacks.  Since it was not AAM I had to sheepishly apologize to everyone in our vicinity and wrangle the R.A. out of the theater while simultaneously attempting to creep quietly out of the theater which was unsuccessful due to the R.A. bellowing, “Moobie!  I want moobie!” Had the same event transpired during AAM not only would we not have left but we would have stayed for a second film.

At the Mall

One of the RA’s favorite places is the mall, specifically the food court.  He quite enjoys watching the parade of humanity pass by. It is such a tremendous occasion that the RA really outdoes himself with the jumping, flapping, and yowling.  His enthusiasm simply cannot be contained. “Oh my Kitchen God! Did you catch a load of that freak?!” He is so hyped up that he has a hard time eating. Sometimes the RA really can’t contain himself and he literally will leap from his chair into the oncoming pedestrian traffic.  The poor unsuspecting soul he lurches at tends to be on his or her device and completely blindsided by this human cannonball. There then proceeds shrieking from both parties, the RA’s with joy, the mall patron with terror. Sometimes, if the RA is lucky, there also follows a bit of impromptu “device juggling” as the mall patron usually loses his/her grip on his/ her device during the ambush.  Good times!

In non AA months, my husband or I would leap up and attempt to corral the RA while sputtering apologies.  But during AAM we would just let the moment ride out and conclude with smugly handing the poor S.O.B. an AAM card while saying, “You’re welcome.”

At a Dance Recital

Fortunately, we dodged dance school because my daughter selected gymnastics.  Although we did have an annual show it was not the sixteen and a half hour extravaganza that dance audiences are subjected to.  Instead it was a mere three hours. We still had to adapt the experience to fit the RA’s tastes. We had to sit in the bleachers in the tippy top row.  These seats had to be on the end closest to the lighting because the RA took his job of inspecting the gel lights very seriously. We were also high enough up that the music and crowd drowned out the yowling and barking of snack orders.  Being on the edge also meant nobody noticed when the R.A. lobbed suddenly offensive snacks or gym show programs over the side rails.

But for those of you who do have to suffer through attend a dance recital, might I recommend:

When your child with autism proceeds to leap onto the stage and knocks over the preschool ballerinas, let him.  As the “Lord of the Lurch” hops about, turn to everyone around you and with gusto declare, “Happy Autism Awareness Month, everyone!  I hope you enjoy the celebration of free expression and dance that my son has brought to the performance. I would retrieve him but since it’s Autism Awareness Month and this is an officially sanctioned Autism Awareness Moment I am afraid I cannot.  Might I suggest that next year you consider holding the recital in March or May?” Then clap with extreme enthusiasm while shouting, “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Don’t forget to hand out the AA cards.

At a Wake

The RA loves boxes.  He enjoys cramming himself into them and rocking violently until he tips over a la bobsled rider on crank.  The RA’s current favorite toy is our laundry basket. He likes to curl up and place the basket over as much of him that it will cover.  The R.A. then wiggles his fingers through the basket’s lattice and demands tickles.

Some might think it inappropriate to spread Autism Awareness at a wake but I think death is a poor excuse of trying to weasel out of being made aware.  Just because someone is dead doesn’t exempt him or her from AAM.

The RA would LOVE a wake primarily because of the casket which to him would be nothing more than a box with a lid or as he would no doubt deem it, a dream come true.  It even comes with a pillow! It just keeps getting better! All I can say is, the RA would not be above removing the casket’s current occupant. That would be the ultimate AAM experience and an unforgettable wake.  Now that I think about it, I believe I have just described my own wake. I am also sure my family will allow the RA to unceremoniously dump me out of the casket and hop in because at least he would be occupied so they could enjoy the wake.

I hope that you’re now thinking about your own AAM.  From the rocky shores of New England across this great country of ours to the majestic forests of the Pacific Northwest, let the flapping, yowling, lurching, and leaping commence.

Happy Autism Awareness Month!

You’re welcome, America.