Party On, Duds!

Recently my family attended a Christmas party hosted by my husband's cousin.  You know a party is going to be epic when you pull up to the house and the R.A. roars from the back seat, "No, please!"

Despite his reluctance we managed to remove the R.A. from the car.  I then dragged him up the rather long and steep walkway.   Ever the multi-tasker, while we lumbered up the walkway the R.A. simultaneously attempted to dig his heels into the pavement, wrench himself out of my grasp, chin my hands viciously, and holler with rage.  All part of his demure announcement, "I say, gentlemen and good ladies, we are here.  Let the festivities commence.  Now bring us some figgy pudding!"

Once we crossed the threshold the R.A. made to bolt from me but I clung valiantly onto his hood while he galloped up and down hallways and in and out of rooms.  I'm sure we looked like a very strange version of a rodeo act.  The hostess appeared and suggested we take the R.A. up to her son's room because he has a mini trampoline.  Using his hood like a horse's reins, I guided the bucking bronco up to the second floor.  Once we hit that top step the R.A. again tried to make a break for it.  Luckily the time at the gym is really paying off and I was able to keep hold of him.  We lurched and stumbled down the hall and in and out of various bedrooms.  Eventually I was able to get the R.A. into the correct bedroom and pointed out the trampoline. (Normally the R.A. is a huge trampoline fan.  He likes to utilize his own trampoline to scale his father's dresser.)  Of course today he ran immediately past the trampoline and into the nearby closet from which I had to wrangle him.  This so enraged the R.A. that he emitted a shriek like a Braveheart warrior, vaulted onto the bed, and began ricocheting all over it.  I chased him around the bed, managed to snatch him and tried to again interest him in the trampoline.  Despite his yowlings the R.A. did step up onto the trampoline.  Unfortunately this was but an ingenious dupe and after a few tiny hops he jumped off the trampoline and skittered out of the room.  Luckily we still had on our winter coats and as I hotfooted after him I was able to snag his hood.  At that moment my husband appeared and stupidly asked how it was going.  Because this is a family blog I will omit my response.  Let's also just say that fortuitously for him I do not carry a firearm.

The R.A. and I again cantered through a few bedrooms before I was able to haul him into the bathroom.  I only chose this spot because it didn't have a bed for him to hurtle himself all over and in addition, I needed a moment to catch my breath.  As we both relaxed on the bathroom floor, the R.A. paused his furious caterwauling and took in the bathroom.  It quickly registered where we were and he immediately began disrobing because there was a shower and isn't that what one does?  I yelled, "No! No! No!" to which the R.A. replied, "No! No! No!"  We then engaged in a quick match of Greco-Roman Baby Wrestling as I attempted to put clothing items back on the R.A. while he simultaneously removed them.

Finally the R.A. accepted that there would be no shower and flounced out of the bathroom a la Joan Crawford.  No doubt he was livid at having been so unceremoniously manhandled.  I chased him down the stairs where we were once again met by the hostess who asked if I wanted anything.  So traumatized by the experience was I that I answered, "What I really want is to go home."

The hostess then suggested we try the rec. room in the basement because it had a lot of video games.  The R.A. really isn't much of a gamer but by now he was so desperate to leave that he was opening and closing random doors in an attempt to find the exit. The rec. room it was.

Down the R.A. and I tromped to the basement where were joined by my husband. There the R.A. proceeded to rail against me, my mother, and probably most of humanity.  Pacing back and forth he raged while wildly gesticulating.  All that rage created a powerful appetite and he demanded  chips which grievously were not provided for him immediately if not sooner which only lent credence to his position that his parents were useless imbeciles.

At this point I told my husband that there was no need in both of us being the R.A.'s whipping boys so why didn't he head up to the actual party.  My husband didn't even complete an insincere, "Well, if you're sure..." before he bounced up the stairs with an agility that was astonishing for someone with a bum knee and sporting a cane.

The R.A continued to pace and roar while also breaking Pringles up into tiny pieces, consuming some bits and grinding others into the rug with his heel.  We had another wrestling match when he insisted on tossing out his Pringles container into a toy box and I had the nerve to retrieve it.  Four times.  Finally I just hid the container in my coat pocket after which I was finally able to take off my coat.

Eventually the R.A. tired of this location and sprinted up the stairs with his captor in hot pursuit.  I chased him through the kitchen and into the  family room.  He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room and let out a few good caterwauls as if testing the acoustics.  The few people that were in the room retreated to the perimeter. Ultimately they did make their escapes.

The R.A. further acclimated himself to his most recent environment by doing wind sprints, charging at and tackling the furniture, and flicking at the Nativity set which was located on a window seat.  All this activity did further increase his appetite and he barked for more chips.  At this juncture my husband had joined us enabling me to head back down to the basement to retrieve the R.A.'s supplies.  As I descended the stairs I did briefly entertain the idea of slipping out a back door but then remembered that my husband had the car keys.  Alas, I was also prevented from hoofing it due to inadequate footwear.  Curses! Foiled again!

Dutifully I returned to the family room with the R.A.'s food.  The R.A. then devoted his attention to arranging his Pringles container and juice box very precisely on the floor.  Then, for good measure, he energetically flicked his fingers and yowled over the juice and chips.  Finally satisfied with his work the R.A. resumed pacing and caterwauling, occasionally pausing to peer out the window as if waiting for his ride to come.

This routine was rigorously and scrupulously repeated.  Of course my husband and I were lulled into a false sense of security and we let our guards down.  We stopped hovering.  At that moment the R.A. lunged at the Nativity set and attempted to abscond with St. Joseph (rather apropos as it is his middle name.)  Much to his dismay the R.A. was thwarted by his father.

Grudgingly the R.A. returned to pacing, mewling, and grinding Pringles into the floor.  After a while he tried to push his father out of the room while ordering, "No, please!  Go!"  Obviously what the R.A. meant was: "You see, I do not like having both of you in the room so Daddy-Guy, you must go.  True, your speed is greatly diminished since the appearance of your cane but you are still the only one who can pick me up.  Mommy-Lady, however, due to her rigorous gym workouts has the speed.  Together you can be remotely competent and therefore capable of impinging upon my plans.  Together you are like a very pathetic super hero team sort of like a Zan and Jayna but unbelievably lamer."

Well, we may be lame and dim but after a while even we learn our lesson and sometimes don't immediately forget whatever lesson we just learned.  Based on the R.A.'s desperation to get rid of his father we figured something dastardly was surely afoot so we stuck to him like Thomas the Tank Engine stickers.

Thankfully the remainder of our time passed without further major incident.  We stayed in our current position in the family room and good St. Joseph remained unmolested.

The R.A., however, did exact his vengeance.  The following morning he was awake at 4:30 AM loudly demanding to be liberated from his room.  My husband retrieved him and the R.A. promptly dashed into the bathroom and insisted on having a shower.  He and his father then engaged in a heated exchange over why the R.A. would not be showering at such a Kitchen-God forsaken early hour.  In a fit of rage the R.A. stomped into our bedroom and proceeded to spend the next hour jumping in and out of our bed, barking out orders for various food items, barking out orders for changes in the selection of DVD in the mini player, and barking out orders that we unlock and open our bedroom door so that he could no doubt pillage the rest of the house.  As you can imagine it was a wonderfully relaxing time.

After about an hour the R.A. decided enough was enough and that he really did need a shower and promptly vomited on the floor and on the edge of our bedspread. Moments later as he jumped up and down in the shower he cackled in delight as any true evil dictator worth his salty Pringles would. 

Kitchen God Rest Ye Merry Idiots

The holidays mean a round of social events - just what every person on the Autism Spectrum adores.  Our holiday season officially commences with the celebration of the anniversary of the R.A.'s arrival on our lowly planet.  On December 14 the R.A. turned the big "0-8" (Although if you ask him how old he is he still insists he's seven.  No doubt he's annoyed at having finally learned to respond "seven" to the age question only to discover that we've now apparently arbitrarily changed the answer to "eight": "Is there no consistency on this Kitchen God forsaken planet?!")

Next up was the holiday show at the R.A.'s Institute of Earth Enculturation a.k.a. his school.  There are approximately 120 students at the R.A.'s school, ranging in age from preschool through young adulthood.  Putting on a Christmas Extravaganza at any school is a huge project.  Putting on a Christmas Extravaganza at a school like the R.A.'s is nothing short of miraculous and a true testament to the dedication and sheer fabulousness of the staff.  Each class offered a presentation, either live or played a pre-recorded video.  They were wonderful.  And you could tell the students were excited and had a great time.  It was an event that was joyful and touching.  It really was the best Christmas pageant ever.

The R.A.'s class, no doubt following the "saving the best for almost last" principle, performed second to last.  They presented a very rigorous interpretation of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" which consisted of his teachers and fellow students joining hands and merrily skipping/running like crank maniacs around a Christmas tree.  I'm telling you, it was better than "Cats."

Following the show my husband and I decided  to take the R.A. out for lunch to celebrate his stage debut.  Unfortunately we made the fatal mistake of assumption.  Lately the R.A. has had little to no serious issues when visiting an establishment for the first time.  Stupidly we assumed he would be delighted to dine at a new restaurant.  I don't know if the R.A. was still suffering from the heady effects of his Tony worthy performance but he had a full blown DIVA tantrum.

Things immediately hit the skids when we were seated in the bar.  This outraged the R.A. who no doubt was insulted by the sheer impertinence of the hostess to park us in such uncouth dining accommodations: "The bar?  Surely you must be joking!  Do you not know who I am?  In addition to being the future dictator of your little backward and backwater planet I am a future Tony award winner!  Have you not seen my performance of 'Sixth Boy to the Right of the Occupational Therapist from 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree?'  It was compelling, finely textured, and subtly nuanced.  And my feet made the most noise on the hardwood floor."

With it being the last Friday before Christmas and being located in the middle of several office parks, the joint was jumping.  It was loud.  It was crowded.  It was crammed full of loathsome Earth creatures.  Not exactly up the R.A.'s alien alley.

Before arriving we did make the requisite McD stop for fries and nuggets.  Of course the people at McD forgot to put any ketchup (or napkins) in the bag.  So we sat in our booth in the bar with the R.A. violently waving a naked fry at my husband and yowling something which I'm sure translated into, "What is wrong with this picture, Big Man?!  Surely even a simpleton like yourself can figure this one out!"  Our server kept sprinting by our table and despite my husband's and my efforts to flag him down for some (insert expletive here) ketchup it was a futile endeavor.  I know it was loud and busy in there but surely the server could hear the caterwauls of fury and see our desperation as we waved our arms with a wildness that one usually reserves for flagging down rescue helicopters while trapped on the side of a mountain (admittedly a more enviable position than what we were currently in.)

Finally the server stopped at our table.  He got through a cheerful, "Hi, my name is (name has been omitted to protect the innocent) and I'll be your server..." when my husband cut him off, "Can we have some ketchup?"  Bemused by the request the server stopped in mid-syllable.  "Our son has Autism and is in the middle of a meltdown so if you could grab us some ketchup that would be great," I hastily explained.  The server finally understood the urgency of the situation and turned and snagged a bottled of ketchup from the table behind him.  Those diners looked bewildered but hey, all's fair in love and R.A. meltdowns. Go get your own damn ketchup.

"Thank you!" my husband snatched the bottle and squirted it out.  I don't know if his nerves were jangled but he bungled the operation, making the inexcusable error of also coating some nuggets with ketchup.  Not surprisingly the R.A. took this as an unforgivable affront to his station and reacted with ire.

"What did you do that for?" I hissed at my husband, my frayed nerves shredding finer and finer with each caterwaul.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" My husband hissed back.  "McD neglected to put napkins in the bag.  I had to improvise."

The server cleared his throat.  In the heat of the ketchup battle we forgot he was there.  Hastily we gave our orders and he sprinted off not reappearing until we put out a Missing Person's Bulletin on him.

Despite finally having his ketchup, the R.A. was not to be calmed (no doubt related to the snafu of the presentation of his meal.) His yowls grew in decibels and his hand flapping and body rocking increased.  Obviously we were a HUUUGGEEE hit with the other diners.  Apparently the group seated behind me was glaring at us.  My husband, fearing I might be compelled to initiate a friendly and informational discussion about "Autism, My Son, and What the Hell Are You Looking At?" decided not to tell me about it.  Yes, a wise decision because at that point I may have gone all "Kill Bill" on their Yuppie backsides.  Or worse, moved the R.A. to their table for lunch.

In a desperate attempt to calm the R.A. I did sing the three officially sanctioned Christmas songs.  Thank the Kitchen God that I am a children's librarian and therefore not self-conscious while shaking my antlers in public and warbling, "If you're a reindeer and you know it shake your antlers."  Although the R.A. did bark out song requests he remained highly agitated.  Ultimately we decided to get the order to go.  We then engaged in another rousing round of  "Server, Why Can't You See Us When That Air National Guard Rescue Chopper Flying Overhead Did."  Oddly, the server did not appear surprised  by our request to get the food to go.

My husband remained in the restaurant to pay for and collect the food while I dragged/wrestled/tugged the R.A. out to the car.  Once ensconced in the vehicle he sat serenely, gazing out the window.  Apparently all the R.A. wanted was a window seat.

Black Wednesday

Being the party animal that he is, the R.A. made sure that the holiday season went off with a bang.  And a few whimpers - mostly mine.  He started the fun the day before Thanksgiving.

I knew I had a full plate that Wednesday night.  As I drove home I concocted a thoughtful, well crafted, detail oriented plan to tackle all the things I needed to get done that evening: laundry, pick up take out dinner, bake, feed children, pick up my brother from the train station, collapse into bed.  A lot to do and not a lot of time to do it in. Basically, when I got home I hit the ground running.

5:45 PM - Entered house and began load of laundry.
5:55 PM - Called in take out order
6:00 PM - Feeling very smug that everything is going according to plan.  Riding tsunami of self congratulations.
6:05 PM - Rudely bitch slapped out of that fantasy.  Went to fetch the R.A. from his room and was greeted by a grinning and crowing with delight R.A. who had not only disrobed but had piddled and pooed all over his room including his bed linens, one of his Teletubbies, and ironically enough, Winnie the Pooh.
6:06 PM - Seriously considering disemboweling self with a Dum Dum.
6:07 PM - Deposit a jubilant R.A. into the shower and commence cleaning his room.  Also inaugurate feeling sorry for myself.
6:25 PM - Very wet tussle with R.A. as I attempt to pull him from the shower.  R.A. is reluctant to exit shower.
6:28 PM - Damp tussle with R.A. as I wrangle him into clothes.  R.A. is reluctant to dress.
6:30 PM - Realize I neglected to put Teletubby Po in the basement with the rest of casualties from the "Great Poo Incident of November 2013."
6:31 PM - Curse vigorously.
6:33 PM - Decide am too exhausted, cranky, mutinous, to schlep Po to the basement so bury her in the middle of my dirty laundry basket.  Po must be buried deep or R.A. will surely grab her and roll around the floor with her, becoming one with her pooey goodness. Make mental note to take care of Po later.
6:33 PM - Immediately forget said mental note.
6:34 PM - Wrestle the R.A. into his coat so that he can accompany me to pick up the food.
6:35 PM - R.A. furiously yowls all the way to the restaurant.
6:39 PM - Manage to snag a cherry parking spot that is only located a half mile from the restaurant.
6:40 PM - Wrangle the R.A. from the car and begin to walk/drag him to the restaurant.  He repeatedly caterwauls, "No, please!"  Initially I am anxious that passersby might think a kidnapping was in progress and call the police on me.  Quickly consider that jail cell would be a quiet place so maybe not such a bad thing.
6:41 PM - The heavens open and  we are drenched with rain.  R.A. roars in fury.
6:45 PM - Finally enter Olive Garden.
6:46 PM - Despite being over 20 minutes late to pick up our order and the restaurant being relatively empty, the food is not ready.  Deposit a mewling R.A. into a nearby seat in the lobby.  R.A. rips off his coat and throws it on the floor.  He then begins a vicious verbal dressing down of adjacent decorative Christmas tree.
6:47 PM - Due to stress I have blurted out to the Olive Garden hostess that I hope I don't smell like poo.  Not unexpectedly, she looks horrified and takes several steps away from me.
6:48 PM - Have just enough self awareness to be mortified and slink over to the R.A.  Apparently the Christmas tree is still insolent as the R.A.'s tirade has become more fierce.  Am feeling so upset that I am tempted to take my feelings out on the impudent Christmas tree.
6:50 PM - Well meaning yet naive waitress approaches the R.A. bearing a gift of color in kiddie menu and crayons.  The R.A. rewards her kindness with savage snarling.  Despite her gaffe, the R.A. snatches the items from her.  The R.A. and I argue about him saying "thank you."  Waitress flees.  A few customers look like they want to join her.
6:51 PM - In a fit of pique the R.A. removes paper from the crayons and then breaks the crayons into tiny pieces.  I am relieved he finally found something with which to occupy himself.
6:53 PM - R.A. has removed shoes.
6:54 PM - Impromptu shoe wrestling match interrupted by nervous looking hostess who tells us our order is ready.
6:55 PM - Engage in rigorous game of paying the bill/chase.
7:00 PM - Depart Olive Garden, leaving mass destruction in our wake.  Kitchen staff applauds as we withdraw.
7:03 PM - Halfway to car the heavens open up again.  R.A. attempts to climb into the Olive Garden bag.
7:08 PM - Head to McD for requisite nuggets and fries.
7:12 PM - R.A. still so enraged that person on other end of intercom at McD cannot hear my order over the monstrous caterwauling.
7:23 PM - Finally reach home.  To punish me the R.A. refuses to eat and spends most of evening pacing, wildly gesturing, yowling, and ensuring that no one can see the television or hear it.
7:35 PM - Attempt to eat dinner.  During this time the R.A. stops pacing and wedges himself behind me on my chair and proceeds to use my back to do leg curls.
8:00 PM -Feel the R.A. and I have had our fill of "quality time" and put him to bed.
8:01 PM - Realize holiday season has yet to begin but already feel as exhausted as if I had attended 3 consecutive Black Friday sales and engaged in several sets of fisticuffs.
8:02 PM - Immediately become unappealing cocktail of despair and fear.
8:03 PM - Ask Kitchen God to bring on the vaporization because it is the only way I am guaranteed a rest.
8:04 PM - Also ask Kitchen God to smite husband.

Like a Norse Saga

"Shocking!"

"Horrifying!"

"Terrifying!"

"The most petrifying spectacle you will see all year!"

"You'll never sleep again because you'll be too frightened to close your eyes!"

The above is not a collection of horror movie reviews.  It's a review of an afternoon out for my family compiled by innocent bystanders.  So actually it is sort of like a horror movie review.

This past Saturday my husband (claimed) he had to work.  It was really lousy timing because Saturday was scheduled to be an action packed day of errands and obligations.  And since child care was down to a one person operation it meant I would have to bring the R.A. along.  We had a lot to do and each task would be a challenge. All I needed was a mythological beast to battle and it would have all the hallmarks of a Norse Saga.

Strangely, we don't have family and friends falling all over themselves to babysit, at least not the R.A.  Well anyone outside of my mother.  Sometimes people will gladly offer to babysit my daughter but not my son.  I often want to ask if they were aware that I had another child.  Or maybe people assume an evil genius despot in training does not require being babysat.  More likely they don't have the guts to take him on.

All week, the very idea of tackling our Saturday tasks with the R.A. in tow filled me with dread.  I alternated between shoving Saturday to the bowels of my mind and pretending that my upcoming doom wasn't going to happen, to imagining worst case scenarios that involved Excommunication and fire trucks, often both.

I had intended to run some errands.  But the minute I found out Saturday was to be a solo mission I jettisoned that idea.  Lately the R.A. has been in training for his new extreme sport - shopping cart para jumping.  I was not up for the thrills, chills, or the sure fire spills.  Like the R.A. caterwauls, "No, please!"

So I moved on to obligation #2 - taking my daughter to her gymnastics lesson.

The R.A. has a love-hate relationship with his sister's gym.  He loves to hate it.  As we drive down the street that the gym is located on, the R.A. starts demonstrating his dislike for the gym by angrily mewling.  The decibels increase as we park the car, walk through the parking lot, and enter the lobby at which point he has whipped himself up into such a frenzy that he keeps trying to run back to the car.  It is quite an entrance.  Vivian Leigh had nothing on the R.A.  For some reason, the facility and any and all persons in it offend the R.A. greatly.  Woe to the kind, yet clueless, well-meaning parent who attempts to smile at him and say hello.  He/She is met with a nasty snarl and furious yowling.  One does not have to speak fluent "Yowlish" to understand that incorporated within the vicious melange is something along the lines of, "What are you looking at?  Wipe that smile off your face or I will!"

I like to enter the lobby/waiting area by loudly declaring to my daughter (who is desperately and unsuccessfully trying to look like she is not with us), "Let's leave your brother alone.  He seems to be a bit of a Futzy McCrabbypants today." It's really more of a courtesy announcement to the room.  I'm thinking as a means of streamlining the operation I might just get him a t-shirt that says, "Bugger off!"

Meanwhile the R.A. has thrown himself onto his knees, begun rocking back and forth, covered his ears with his hands and is caterwauling like he is trying to break the sound barrier.  Toddler siblings scramble to get out of the room and baby siblings start to wail.  Other parents gape at me wearing horrified expressions.  We're here!

They ought to sound an alarm when our car pulls into the lot.  "Batten down the hatches!  Trouble approaches!"

Eventually the R.A. tires of his act of gymnastics protest and spends the remaining time alternating between scaling over unsuspecting parents to get a view at one of the interior windows into the gym area and making mad dashes into the gym area anytime the gym door opens.  This then commences a rousing game of Greco-Roman chase combined with Greco-Roman baby wrestling as I wrangle the R.A. back into the waiting area.

At the end of the gym lesson I don't know who has had a more rigorous workout - my daughter or me.

Luckily Unfortunately I have to work a lot of Saturday mornings so my husband tends to do most of the gymnastics lessons.

Because waiting for my daughter has become a bit stressful, I have started dropping my daughter off for her lesson and taking the R.A. to a nearby McDonald's for the requisite fries and nuggets (and yes, ketchup.)  We have a favorite booth that overlooks the parking lot where the R.A. enjoys his early lunch and flapping at passing cars.  It's actually quite pleasant and ketchup-y.

This past Saturday, however, the McDonald's experience did not go as well.  For one thing it was crowded and loud like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday.  As we stood in line to order, the R.A. caterwauled in rage as if to say, "Who the hell are all these people and why are they here?"

Then, another family had the temerity to be sitting in our booth AND did not take the oh so subtle hint that they were sitting in reserved seating.  The hint being that several times the R.A. charged the table and attempted to sit in one of the occupied booths much to the horror of the family who probably did not know they were participants in a game of full contact lunch time.

Quite skillfully I managed to balance our tray of food and guide/tussle the R.A. to a vacant table that had the massive drawback of not being near a window.  I then wrestled the R.A. into the booth.  He was not pleased and several times, once I thought I had him seated, tried to dash out of the booth.  The R.A. angrily yowled at me but finally accepted his fate of being ungraciously relegated to the back of the restaurant table.  But he wasn't going to like it and made sure everyone knew it by savagely yowling.  He refused to eat and I think at one point, if my Yowlish serves me, spat out something like, "Eat your own damn nuggets!"

Lately the R.A. has been on a musical kick, demanding I sing, in varying order, three approved Thanksgiving songs.  Usually there is strict protocol to these musical interludes: 1. They must be sung at times that are very inconvenient for me such as dinnertime. 2. I must sing them from the specifically designated staging area, our staircase that connects the first and second floors. 3. I am not allowed to slip in other songs.

The R.A. was becoming more and more riled up and I was desperate to calm him.  So I started singing one of the approved Thanksgiving songs. Almost immediately he stopped yowling and studied me.  I commenced a second song and the R.A. stopped rocking.  By the third song he started eating a fry and then proceeded to demand particular songs.  Yes, it meant I didn't get to eat but it did mean he was civil.  I would forgo a Roman banquet for a bit of tranquility.

Pretty soon the R.A. was having a swell time for himself.  It was probably his version of dinner theater.  He then noticed that we were sitting next to the restrooms and became extremely interested in the action of people going in and out.  If someone was in for what the R.A. determined a long time he would have me stop singing and perch himself forward on his seat, waiting expectantly for the person to emerge.  When the person finally did the R.A. would exhale in relief and grin at me as if to say, "Whew!  Close call on that one!  But he made it!"  If his hands weren't full of fries he probably would have fist bumped the other diner.

The R.A. was having such a good time that it was difficult getting him to leave.  Complicating the matter was that I had to use the restroom.  Now, the R.A. is a fan of viewing other people going into and coming out of the restroom but not so much a fan of himself using or even entering a public restroom.  As we entered the restroom he bellowed as if I had just flogged him 37 times.  Once inside the stall the R.A. wedged himself behind the toilet and wailed furiously while chinning himself.  I made a snap decision to  hold off in having him use the potty.  It would be too traumatizing for both of us. To be honest I was also emotionally drained from my Thanksgiving concert performance.

We finally left McDonald's and headed back to the gym to pick up my daughter.  The next task was actually the more challenging one.  I had a meeting at my church and with no child care, had to take the G2* with me.  The meeting was to occur right after gymnastics so I had to hit the drive through for my daughter.  The plan was that I would set up the G2 in a corner of the meeting room and they would eat (I brought the R.A.'s lunch box) while the meeting went on.

Unfortunately the R.A. did not approve of Austin Hall, the room where we were meeting.  I had set him up with snacks and my daughter with her lunch but the R.A. was not down with it.  He kept running up to other people at the meeting, making as if to chin them and yowling furiously.  Anytime a person entered the room the R.A. made to dart around him and attempted to bolt out of the room.  And this was all before the meeting officially started. I apologized repeatedly to meeting attendees explaining he had autism and I had child care issues.  Just prior to the commencement of the meeting, the priest decided to move the meeting downstairs to the rectory's dining room.  So I had to pack up all of the G2's supplies and head down.  Of course, even though the original meeting spot offended the R.A., moving exasperated him even more.  In addition to carrying all of my children's gear I had to hold the R.A. by his collar and tug him down to the dining room.  Fortuitously the trek to the dining room included a creaky set of stairs.  Nothing for nothing but by this time even Thor would have been a little wilty and overwhelmed.

The dining room was tactically a better space and I managed to snag a spot in a back corner.  I settled my daughter on the floor, ("It's like a picnic!" I told her. "Mom, this is a dining room, there are like 6 tables down here. Dining tables," she pointed out. "They're for real people to eat at! Not us!" I hissed at her.)  The R.A., true to his patrician/tyrant nature, refused to sit on the floor and took my spot at the table where he proceeded to work on his memoirs** while mewling at what must have been the happy bits and waving his hands like he was conducting the "1812 Overture" much to the disadvantage of the poor man who was sitting next to him.  I did try a couple of times to wrangle the R.A.  to the ground so that he would not disturb the others but quickly realized that our tussling was probably more distracting than the yowling and hand flapping.

Because it was a church meeting we began with a prayer and some hymn singing.  Ever the music aficionado, the R.A. joined us, caterwauling with great gusto.  He even added some loud solo bits.

Once the R.A. was convinced I would leave him alone he promptly hopped out of the chair and seated himself on the floor in the original spot where I placed him.  He worked a bit more on his memoirs, and then, to make himself more at home, removed his shoes and socks.  Unfortunately this was not discovered until the R.A. made a mad dash through the dining room.  I corralled him back to his corner while he protested indignantly.  The church rectory is over 120 years old and I bet I can safely say that that was the first time anyone has walked (or run) its floors sans shoes or socks.  Three times.

After the meeting I apologized to the priest about having to bring the children and he told me they were always welcome and he was glad to see them.  Other meeting attendees also came up to me and said nice things about both of my children.  I have to say that one reason I like my church is that parishioners and priests alike are very kind to and about the R.A.  And they have always been that way.  I wish the rest of the world could take a page out of their book.  This, ladies and gentlemen, is what true Christianity looks like.

Thankfully the Great Saturday Saga ended shortly after.  I am happy to report that I was not ex-communicated and no buildings were torched in the process.  All in all not a bad day.

*G2 - "Gruesome Twosome:" Affectionate nickname for my children
**Memoirs - The R.A. has a couple of those magnetic scribble boards that one can write on with its little pen and then move a lever to clear the screen.  He likes to color in every square inch of the screen while occasionally pausing to flick the screen.  We refer to this process as "working on his memoirs."  In reality these are probably intricate battle plans for when the home planet finally invades earth.

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Pretty much any endeavor for our family is a laborious exercise in frustration, exhaustion, and grit. Whether it's for business or pleasure, autism adds that special little bit of something that makes it more akin to a "Survivor Challenge" hopped up on steroids but without the fake boobs.  Yes, from the most mundane tasks like unloading the dishwasher to the heavy ticket undertakings like a First Communion, we come out the other side battered, bruised, and praying for vaporization.

So obviously, a "Quiet Night In" is anything but.  It's actually more like being held in a Siberian prison except most of those prisoners knew that there would be eventual freedom either through release or death.  I swear at times I wish we had guards in turrets that I could taunt and then have them shoot me.

This past Saturday night we attempted a "Quiet Night In."  The plan was to order out (Italian) and watch one of our DVR'd programs ("Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.")  On paper the plan looked good.  It appeared so simple and clean that even a pair of dopes like my husband and me should have been able to have pulled it off.

Nope.

We already knew, going into the project that there would be complications primarily due to the R.A.  The fact that we would be striving to eat AND watch television WHILE the R.A. was in the vicinity were major handicaps.  I mean, this wasn't our first rodeo.  But we have learned to adapt to our life situation.  And by adapt I mean to either have no expectations or really really low expectations concerning any and all plans.

For example:

I know that "Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." started out with strong critical and popular reviews but within a few weeks there are grumblings that the plots are boring yet convoluted. If I lived a "regular" viewing life I might very well agree.  However, as I pointed out to my husband, we are always having to watch the show under combat conditions therefore due to  all of the R.A.'s antics we are really only getting to see maybe 1/4 of each show.  And that quarter program is pretty darn good.

Also worth noting is that the accepted rules of space and time do not apply in our house.  The typical one hour television program is actually 44 minutes long.  In our house it actually takes us 86 minutes to watch such an episode and that includes fast forwarding through commercials.  There is a lot of pausing, stopping, rewinding, arguing about whether we all saw a certain segment and, of course, loud yowlings.  The overabundance of clicker (television remote control for the uninitiated) action is directly related to the R.A.  During family television time the R.A.'s designated spot is directly in front of the TV, mere inches from the screen.  Mind you, this is only his preferred spot if it is not his show on the television.  It's bad enough he plonks his scrawny body (yet enormous head) right in the dead center of the screen, but he also vigorously jumps up and down and flaps for Britain thus ensuring that no one in the room is allowed to see the action on the TV.  To guarantee that the rest of family will be unable to follow the program the R.A. caterwauls like he is trying to communicate with the family that lives two houses down the street thus ensuring that not only can we not see the show we can't hear it either.  Any attempts by the family to move the R.A. from his spot or to quiet him are met with indignant rage.  Thus we must do a lot of pausing and rewinding because we miss so much. We then get to the point where we forgo the rewinding and soldier on, hoping that a particular scene wasn't too integral to the episode's plot.

Sadly it usually is.  Again, thank goodness for those low expectations!

This past Saturday night the R.A. was en fuego.  I mean, I am sure he even surprised himself with the level of naughtiness that he demonstrated.  If the R.A. were scored on his performance it would have been a perfect 10.

Here are the low lights:

•  Per usual, our meal was persistently interrupted by the R.A. barking food demands at us.  One demand involved me hovering on a step ladder while holding a giant bag of Dum Dums while the R.A. leisurely pawed through to find his favorites. (Note: due to his "Dum Dum Problem" we have to keep the lollies in a high cabinet above our stove which means I am required to fetch said step ladder to retrieve them.  Additionally fun when the stove is full of large and very hot pots!)  Any attempts by me to hurry him along were met with incensed reprimands.  
• When my husband arrived home from picking up our take out (yes, including the obligatory french fries and nuggets) the R.A. noticed that his father had also FINALLY picked up his longed for "Schoopees" (translation: Snoopy gummies.)  He crowed in delight and quickly wolfed down two packets and
• Because he was so enthusiastic didn't bother chewing the gummies and promptly choked on them thus
• Causing himself to throw up.  Fortunately the R.A. spends so much time vomiting he now knows to run into the bathroom and head for the toilet, sometimes even managing to throw up in the toilet as opposed to next to the toilet.  Further evidence supporting the theory that he throws up a lot - vomit does not diminish our appetites.  Cleaning up the vomit is not an abandonment of our meal but rather a delay.  Once the R.A. and the bathroom are squared away my husband and I return to our dinner and the program.
• The R.A. interrupts us again to demand "Peehockles!" (translation: popcorn.)  Because he has just thrown up I am opposed to giving him more food, particularly rough edged food that does require thorough chewing.  My husband disagrees, mostly because he is very hungry and just wants a few minutes to eat.  I relent.  The popcorn is put in the microwave and the R.A. amuses himself by racing to and fro in front of the microwave while shouting, "Peehockles!  Peehockles!" as if it is the treat of the ages.  His father then explains that in addition to giving in to the R.A.'s demand we have also bought some extra time as the R.A. engages in his peehockle microwave ritual.  At least we know where the R.A. is and it doesn't involve Sharpie markers, extreme heights, or blocking a television screen.   Genius.
• Once the peehockle is popped and ready, the R.A. eats approximately two pieces and resumes his requisite television spot.  We resume pausing, rewinding, craning our necks around the R.A., etc. 
• The R.A. does take occasional TV breaks to remove all coats, jackets, and sweaters from a nearby coat rack and railing.  He piles all of them into a huge hillock on top of which he places his medicine ball and proceeds to roll over the mound.  Yes, we should prevent him from doing this as 1. it is dangerous to roll a medicine ball over an unsteady mountain of outerwear and 2. it isn't exactly the tidiest way to treat said outwear.  But we are sooo glad to finally be able to see and sort of hear (After all, the R.A. is still loudly caterwauling in the room) the show that we don't intervene. 
• Much to our own peril.  For it is during this time that my husband and I both hear the sound of water tinkling.  We reacted at the same time and bounded over to the R.A. to discover him buck naked, standing on the medicine ball and weeing onto the floor while joyfully squealing.  

I think the R.A. sensed that he had outdone himself.  He was so pleased that he didn't even fight being hustled up to the bathroom and ultimately his bed.  His work was done and no doubt he was exhausted.

If the R.A. could have articulated it I'm sure he would have said, "Who's the real 'Earth's Mightiest Hero' now, beeyatches?"

A Living Nightmare

The R.A. is a big fan of water - he enjoys swimming laps in our bathtub (in between trying to scale the shower curtain); attempting to walk to Nova Scotia from the ocean waters of Rye, New Hampshire; and doing wind sprints in our local lake while caterwauling at innocent bystanders who make the mistake of swimming in his path.  His water activities are very energetic in a charming "I just drank 32 large espressos and downed 2 dozen diet pills" sort of way and as a result the R.A. spends a lot of time with his face submerged in the water.  We are actually very fortunate that he does not mind getting his face wet because some kids on the spectrum hate it which makes bath time challenging.

But before we get all smug and full of self congratulations over this aquatic victory, there is, of course, because it involves the R.A., a catch.  The catch is, that despite his affinity for bath water and recreational "swimming" water, he despises the rain and the snow.  The R.A. abhors it so much that when caught in a surprise rain shower he has been known to clamber up his father while shouting, "No, please!  No, please!" Any attempts to get the R.A. to play outside in the snow, especially while it is snowing, have been unsuccessful.  The last time I tried he spread himself out across the side door frame, gripping one side with each hand and bracing himself with each foot while roaring the obligatory, "No, please!  No, please!"  I had the added bonus of our mail carrier witnessing me  detaching the R.A. from the door frame.  P.S. There really isn't a convincing way to explain that one away.

Why this passionate dislike of precipitation?  Maybe it was the hours he spent working on getting his hair to look just right. It isn't easy getting those 27 cowlicks to stand up at gravity defying angles only to be threatened by rain drops or snow flakes.  Let me also say that the R.A. doesn't so much have a head of hair as a ranch for wild cowlicks.  (Not to be outdone, his sister's head is more of a halfway house for not only wayward cowlicks but delinquent snarls.)

The week of Halloween I found myself anxiously watching various weather reports.  As the day approached, meteorologists gleefully reported that yes, there would be rain but not to worry as  it would be to the north and west of Boston.  So per usual, when it comes to the local news, places other than Boston (we live north of the city) did not count.  As my father used to say, "So what are we, dog sh#*?"

I spent most of Halloween day at work in a panic. My husband was unable to get Halloween off from work.  (Or so he says.  I'm convinced he never put in for the time off preferring to go to work rather than trick or treat with the family.   Mind you, I'm not judging.  I'm just jealous that I didn't think of it first.)  That meant that I was on my own for this dreaded mission.  And, boy, did I dread it.

Originally the R.A. was supposed to be Superman for Halloween.  At his school's annual Halloween party we discovered that the Man of Steel was allergic to his costume. The R.A. is really more the Man of Tin Foil.

While I dressed/wrangled the R.A. into his backup Thomas the Tank Engine costume, he was already conveying his preference not to go out.  I attempted to chat up how great trick or treating was but he was having none of it as evidenced by his rigorous "No, please!" and insistence on "Bye, bye car, now!"

Once I finally got the R.A. out of the house he made a break for it and ran to my car while hollering, "Bye, bye, car!  Bye, bye, car!" He clung desperately to my car's bumper and I tried to jimmy him free.  While we tussled the R.A. kept screaming, "Bye, bye, car!" while I responded with a sing songy, "Trick or treating is fun!  Let's gooooo!"  We were probably the most frightening thing most families saw as they hurried past our house.

I finally managed to pry him off the bumper and we walked/shuffled/dragged ourselves down the street just as the soft drizzle turned into a full on downpour.  The R.A. howled in frustration and rage.  My hands were literally full - I had a vice grip on the R.A. and was also holding his Halloween candy bag, an umbrella, my daughter's waterlogged witch's hat and bribery Dum Dums which had been spurned.  The pair of us looked like we were doing a Quasimodo inspired two step down the road.  My daughter walked ahead of us, her only contact an irritated, "Seriously?  This is so embarrassing!" 

Despite the weather and despite the R.A.'s marked lack of enthusiasm I resolved that we were going to trick or trick, come hell or high water.   "Let's go!  Move it!  Move it!"  I barked at my daughter.  "Go on ahead!  Hurry!  Hurry!  I've got him!  Don't look back! Go! Go! Go!"  By the fourth house I realized that Eisenhower probably approached the Invasion of Normandy with more whimsy than I was giving to the trick or treat mission.  That immediately put the entire thing in perspective for me.

I realized that my determination stemmed from the desire that my daughter got to trick or treat.  When you have an Autism Family, a lot of your life is dominated by the Autism.  It controls what you do, when you do it, where you do it, how you do it, why you do it, and sadly why you don't do it.  No plans are permanent and all are subject to change.  It is a tough way to live and the biggest casualties of this lifestyle are the siblings.  My daughter has gotten to the point that whenever we have plans she is fretful that they will fall through.  When I walked in the door from work on Halloween night she was already in her costume but her first words to me were, "It's raining.  Will we still get to go trick or treating?" 

I resent adults telling kids who live in these situations crummy platitudes like you don't always get what you want in life and this is a learning experience.   Or - this is it so accept it. That sucks.  Grownups who say that are grownups who don't think kids have a right not only to voice their feelings but to have feelings.  Those grownups are often too lazy to find a better solution.  Yes, there are times when changes to plans are unavoidable but there are other times when the grownup can come up with an alternative.  We owe it to the siblings to try.  Nobody asked to have an Autism Family but the siblings are the most affected.  And the bottom line is that they are just kids and kids are not equipped to handle things like an adult and nobody should burden them with the expectation that they should.

So standing there in pouring rain while wrestling a wild R.A., I took a deep breath and made a conscious effort that Autism was not going to steam roll over Halloween.  My daughter was racing down a driveway like she was in a crucial leg of the Tour de France.

"Come on!" She panted.  "Let's get moving!"

"Stop!" I ordered.

She protested.  "We don't know how much longer he can handle this."

"Listen," I told her. "Halloween only comes once a year and you've been looking forward to it.  OUCH!" I was interrupted by the R.A. viciously chinning me.  "We are going to have as much fun as we can despite the weather and despite other complications," I said while nodding my head in the R.A.'s direction.  "Explorers on a quest did not let rotten weather or ... challenges stand in their way.  It was all part of the adventure.  Let's pretend we are on a candy quest."

My daughter observed me thoughtfully, initially doubtfully.  To be fair there are times when even I ponder my sanity.  Gradually her frown changed to a smile.  "Sounds good."

So then we lurched off into the night on our Candy Quest.  I found if I kept the R.A. moving he wasn't quite as barbarous.  While my daughter approached a door for candy, I would walk the R.A. back and forth at the bottom of the driveway.  I think it confused him because we would head in one direction and then abruptly change direction and would repeat 3 - 4 times.  I literally had him not knowing if he was coming or going.

About halfway through our adventure, thank the Kitchen God, the rain abated.  This greatly pleased the R.A. and his roars of fury dissolved into yowls of indignation peppered with insults to my mother.

One neighbor kindly remembered the R.A.'s food allergies and Autism (sounds like an Early Intervention workshop) and when we approached his house presented the R.A. with an entire bowl of Dum Dums for him to rifle through.  The R.A. crowed in delight.  If he could have dived into the bowl he would have.  I was finally able to extract the R.A. when he realized he only had two fists with which to clench his booty.  He simply could not bear to part with the lollies and put them in his bag. 

His spoils clenched in his hands, the R.A. was far more pleasant for the remaining trick or treat time.  So pleasant that he giggled and mirthfully mewled and, I kid you not, skipped down the road.  It did make me wonder just what was in those lollies (and where I could get my hands on whatever it was.) Happily, my daughter was able to hit all of the houses in the neighborhood - most importantly the one that gave out full sized candy bars.

All's well that ends well.  Another holiday tackled, stomped upon, stamped upon, and driven into the ground.  Bring on Thanksgiving!

A Little R n R

The R.A. is on vacation this week.  Which means nobody else is.  He's been having a bit of a hard time with it as noted by my husband who has been awakened the past couple of mornings with a television clicker to the head and a shrill, "Go skwool?  Go skwool?"*  Upon reporting that there was no school, my husband was rewarded with furious yowls and vigorous chinnings.  Monday morning the R.A. was so desperate to go to school that he appeared back in our bedroom with sneakers and socks and attempted to put them on.  Most mornings the introduction of shoes and socks signals the imminent arrival of his school bus.  Apparently the R.A. thought that by grabbing his footwear he could conjure up the school bus.  Much to his dismay that was not the case.  But since it did occupy his time in a non-climbing and non-Sharpie marker fashion, my husband let him work on shodding his own feet.  It took the R.A. so long that my husband fell back to sleep only to be awakened by the R.A. dragging both his father's legs out of bed while demanding, "Go skwool?  Go skwool?"

We have been surprised by the R.A.'s seeming about face regarding "skwool" because traditionally we have found that on weekday mornings when we announce that it's time to get ready for school he vehemently opposes it as evidenced by his shrieking, "No, Please!  No, Please!" and his endeavors to run away from his father.  There are also his attempts to undress himself, no doubt believing that not only could he not be sent to school in only a Pull-Up but that we only know how to dress him one time per morning and are incapable of figuring out how to do it again. 

I think the R.A. regards school as the lesser of two evils, or more accurately, the lesser of two idiotic institutions.  Obviously my husband and I are bigger dopes than any of the school staff.  Fair play.  I have recently re-read a few past postings and would have to agree.

But because "technically" it is a vacation week, my husband and I felt compelled to do some "vacation-y" things.  Today we had planned on our old standby, the beach.  The weather, to our tremendous disappointment, did not cooperate.  We'd actually been watching the weather the past couple of days, praying for a sunny day but the Kitchen God stiffed us and an unsettled day was predicted.  When the meteorologist said "an unsettled day" I snorted out loud.  She had no idea.

My husband and I spent most of Monday racking our brains to think of indoor activities that would not cost more than the monthly mortgage payment and more importantly, not offend the R.A.  By the time I arrived home from work Monday afternoon I had a raging headache from thinking so hard but still no ideas.  My daughter greeted me at the door with, "What are we doing tomorrow?"  When I responded that I was still looking into it, she shot me a pre-teen look and snarked that it had better not be something boring.  At that point I didn't care what it was as long as it meant we were not stuck in the house together.  I also wondered if there were a local kiddie kennel where we could send the kids for the rest of vacation.

After trolling the Internet and searching the bowels of my frazzled brain, I finally hit upon an ice cream/entertainment center about 30 minutes from our house.  Now, we have a similar place right in our town but travel time meant more time we were out of the house.

Once she heard "ice cream" my daughter was in.  We could have been going  for matching motorcycle gang tats and as long as ice cream was involved she would have been fine with it.  To review - ice cream does not equal boring.  

So early Tuesday afternoon off we went.  There was one dicey moment on the drive when the R.A., apparently having accepted a no school day, had a mini melt down as we came upon the school exit off the highway.  We all did that high pitched, sing song-y, panicky, "No school!  No school!  Bye-bye school!"  Once wepassed the exit he calmed down and resumed his backseat hand flapping.  Whew!  One crisis averted.

Upon reaching  our destination the R.A. was a bit uncertain.  When my husband pulled him out of the car he announced, "No, please!" and attempted to climb back into the car.  His dad managed to coax/half carry him through the parking lot.  Let the fun begin!

Since it was lunch time we first hit the order window.  Well, my husband, daughter, and I attempted to.  The R.A. found it offensive and sat on a decorative lobster trap and refused to move.  My husband said he would place our order and instructed me to take the children to a table.

This place also has a section with animals on display - some goats, chickens, roosters, your garden variety farm animals.  And oddly enough a peacock and pea hen.  Customers were not allowed to feed the animals.  Apparently how it worked was people watched the animals watching the people  eat.  To my daughter's delight, we snagged a table right next to the animals.  While she pointed out the animals, the R.A. spent time acclimating to a new place.  He did this by scowling, refusing to make eye contact and yowling. 

Unfortunately we arrived just as an apparent domestic dispute between the rooster and the hens was unfolding and their cackling and crowing was quite loud.  This upset the R.A. whose own caterwauling graduated.  At one point he shouted, "Quiet!" at them and then covered his ears.  Finally the R.A. became so disturbed he jumped into my lap.  At this point my husband and I decided perhaps it was best to move tables.

We moved inside a tented area.  The R.A. was delighted with our new accommodations which were next to the trash. Surveying the trash bin he flashed a happy smile. The R.A. is quite a tidy little terror and when he eats, the minute he is finished with an item, into the trash it goes, regardless of whether or not it is disposable.  Proximity to the trash is the R.A.'s equivalent of seating with a view.

The rest of our visit progressed pretty smoothly except for one brief incident in the gift barn.  Said gift barn has two floors.  The R.A. is a huge fan of stories and tiers.  This place was right up his alley as the second floor overlooked the first.  When we reached the second floor the R.A. raced to the railing and proceeded to toe jump and flick his fingers through the railing.  So far, so good.  But what the R.A. also likes to do when on the second floor is toss things down to the first floor.  At home he has tossed down crackers, Thomas trains, television remote controls, and on one occasion (unbeknownst to my husband), eye glasses.  Fortunately, this afternoon my husband brought his A game and intercepted the R.A.'s attempt to toss a Christmas ornament over the railing.  At this point, over the R.A.'s indignant protestations, my husband suggested it might be a good idea if he and the R.A. waited for us outside.  I did not disagree and I'm sure none of the customers in the bake shop below us did either.

Five more vacation days to go.  I'm not sure if we will be able to survive all this rest and relaxation.  Let's face it.  We won't really get any rest until the vaporization comes.  Vaporization Now!  Vaporization Forever!

*School