I'm Your Biggest Fan

There are two people the R.A. finds fascinating.  One is his sister but I believe that fascination is primarily due to her stuff.  The second person is my brother.  I think part of this interest stems from the fact that when the R.A. looks at his uncle he is looking into the face of the future.  Literally.  For some reason, whenever people see my son they tend to remark, "Oh my God!  He looks just like your brother!"  Mind you, people rarely say the R.A. looks like me.  They mostly say he looks like my brother.  I know, creepy weird. And it's not a passing resemblance either.  My son looks pretty much exactly how my brother looked at age 5 years.  Therefore we can confidently deduce that what my brother looks like as an adult is how the R.A. is going to look. (Sorry, R.A., no hair for you!  But you will make up for it with thick luxurious eyebrows.)

My brother has been away for several months.  We weren't sure how the R.A. would react upon his uncle's re-entry into the old family homestead.  His arrival would mean something different from how things usually are and would interrupt routine.  We also were uncertain how the R.A. would respond to having another earthling in his precious space - he already has to deal with four excruciatingly stupid earthlings.  Would one more earth dope send the R.A. over the edge? Great, great.  As if I don't have enough clueless dolts to deal with.  Let's just add another to the Dope-a-pah-Loosah Festival.  What, are we busing them in now?

We needn't have worried.  The R.A.'s fascination for his uncle had not waned.  There wasn't even the customary "I need to warily check you out" time (1 - 7 days) that typically accompanies any new person or new situation.  I have come to believe that the R.A. holds his uncle in higher esteem than the rest of his family.  He doesn't think his uncle is quite as slow as the rest of us.  Why?  Hey, we're dealing with alien logic here.  It might be that the R.A. prefers his uncle's footwear to the rest of the family's.  Maybe they don't have hair on the home planet so the R.A. senses a connection with his uncle.  It is one of life's mysteries and one of the many that surround the R.A.

Within the first day of my brother's return, the R.A. paid his uncle a visit in his uncle's room.  Thrilled, the R.A. ran into my brother's room, literally jumping for joy and stimming for Britain, physically with his hands and orally with his mouth, yowling with glee.  And then promptly shut himself in the closet.  It's like he was saying, I am ecstatic that you are home.  If you need me, you can reach me in the closet. So great to see you!  Of course at that moment my brother was strumming his guitar.  The closet move may have actually been one of self defense,  I'm happy you're home but your guitar playing sucks.  As I can't tell you this I will just hang in the closet.   Again, we'll never know.  So that's how the R.A. and his uncle spent their first visit together.  It was pretty mellow.  But both enjoyed their time together.  That's what it's all about - family spending time together.  If we're all honest, most of us would find time spent with certain family members better if we could hide in closets.

Sit, Roll Over, Play Dead

Autism is hard.  It is hard for the person who has it.  But it's also hard for the family because despite the challenges of the autism, there is still a whole family that needs to function.  Over time, without a conscious effort, you start adapting the family's life to the autism.  You do all sorts of things that are seen as odd to "civilians" without giving it a second thought.  The seemingly odd becomes your family's "normal."  Everyone in the family just goes along with it - like McDonald's runs before going to a restaurant to eat, making sure to know where the McDonald's is before going to an unfamiliar place, double-checking the white paper napkins in your car's console.  It's like you're trying to live a life despite the autism.  Or as best as it will allow.

As I said, all this "autism adaptive" behavior, happens without the family realizing it.  What really has occurred is that the R.A. has gradually and methodically trained us well:

I will only eat McDonald's french fries.  I know we are in the middle of the White Mountains but that's your problem, not mine.  Figure it out!  And by the way, get this Burger King slop out of my sight!

I know there are 48 other stores in the mall but we will only ever visit two. I'm feeling magnanimous - the Food Court doesn't count.

I realize it's 4 o'clock in the morning but I have a hankering for Pringles NOW!  So get your lazy, sleep drunk as* out of your bed and hustle down to the kitchen and get me some - unbroken.  And get me one of my juice boxes while you're at it.  And don't try to pass off one of those substandard "Mott's Tots"  boxes o' crap.  I will be able to tell.

In many ways the R.A. has broken us.  We don't even protest or attempt to disagree.  We just do as the R.A. demands.  It's easier that way.  I think we are also so sleep deprived that there isn't much left of our already deficient mental capacities.  I now understand why sleep deprivation is used by cults to control their members.  I do all sorts of crazy sh*# because the R.A. instructs me to.

This evening the R.A. has been working for hours on intricate Dum Dum floor models.  The models stretch from the living out to the hall.  The areas the R.A. has chosen for his models are high traffic areas but we know better than to attempt to move them or the R.A.  Instead, we are all contorting our bodies and tiptoeing in between and around the lollies - even if we're carrying things.  My brother, the world traveler, is currently home until his next international adventure.  But even he adapts without asking questions.  Tonight my brother came in from a frisbee game, wove his way through the models, complimented his nephew on his designs, and hit the shower.  It's just the way things are.  Pretty much all the time.  We are extremely tractable.

Good humans, now go get me some more ketchup before I ask the Kitchen God to vaporize your entire planet.

The Mall, Part Too (Much)

The Only Predictable Thing About Life with Someone on the Spectrum Is That It Is Completely Unpredictable.

- True adage about Autism that is unfortunately way too long to put on a t-shirt therefore I won't be making any money on it.

We have had a nice block of rain these past four days.  I don't mind rain during the work week as I am at work (although I do get a bit cheesed off when it rains all weekend and then Monday is gorgeous.  It's sort of like God giving us the cosmic finger.)  I do, however, get a little freaked out when it rains on the weekend as it means lots of indoor time with the children or as I like to call it a "forced hostage situation" with my husband and I being the hostages.  Friday night I already started mulling over what to do with the children on the weekend - knife throwing lessons (too boring), French lessons (neither one of them is fluent in English yet, let's get that under our belt first), clog dancing (unfortunately no place close by offers it).  Finally I hit it - the mall.  But with a twist.  The mall has one of those "paint overly priced not very artistically designed" plaster paint places.  I have taken my daughter before and she enjoyed it.  The R.A. does like to pick up the old paint brush and paint himself (hands and face) but also has been known to paint the designated item (and then go back to his version of a self portrait.)  I thought the plaster paint place would be a good idea as both kids would enjoy it.  It's not always easy finding something that both kids like.  For some reason they have very divergent tastes in amusements.  My daughter is into arts and crafts, My Little Pony, and eating junk food.  The R.A. is into Thomas, toe walking, and not sleeping.

Feeling very proud of myself I conveyed my idea to my husband.  He didn't think it sucked so off we went.

Once in the mall parking lot, we followed protocol and my husband removed the ancient stroller from the trunk.  The R.A. knows we are a pair of clueless boobs so supervised us closely to make sure we did in fact pull the stroller out.  Only then did he exit the vehicle and plop himself into the stroller.

I admit I was looking forward to our outing and anticipated a good time for the family.  Now, I'm not completely naive and expected that there would be some glitches.  Of course as I based my idea to go to the plaster paint place on neurotypical logic, I totally miscalculated the situation.  Yay me!

Upon entering the store the R.A. first looked confused then panicked then pissed.  As my husband noted, the R.A. was no doubt thinking, "This is not proper mall procedure!  Where the hell are we?"  He wouldn't get out of the stroller.  We tried to jolly him along, "Look!  Painting!  Fun!"   With gritted teeth and our usual dimwitted determination we soldiered on (no, we never learn to retreat.)  My husband wrestled him out of the stroller and handed him a paintbrush and guided him to paint a Batman decoration.  The R.A. cried the entire time as he slapped paint on his decoration, using extremely angry strokes.  It wasn't so much painting as punishing the decoration.  I'm sure he was picturing our faces receiving the paintbrush's lashes.  After about a minute and a half the R.A. tossed the paintbrush and declared, "All done!"  He then crawled back into his stroller and attempted to buckle himself in, refusing to look at anyone or anything in the shop.  The R.A. also attempted to leave the shop by rocking the stroller back and forth making it move about half a centimeter.  Boy was crazed.  And that was only for the base coat.  We still had to put on the actual paint.  But you know us - Never give in!  Never surrender!  The R.A. and my husband went for a stroll in the mall while the base coat was drying.  My husband and I reasoned (incorrectly) that this was a new place and the R.A. needed time to get used to it.  By the time they returned, the R.A. would settle down and have a swell time painting.  At this point if the R.A. chose to paint himself and not the decoration that would be okay with us.  Heck, if the R.A. chose to paint one of us and not the decoration that would be okay with us.

The minute the stroller crossed back into the shop's threshold, the R.A. started chinning and keening.  So far not so good.  Undeterred by his obvious abhorrence to the shop, we continued on - our obvious lack of intelligence made up for by our obnoxious tenacity.  After wrangling him out of the stroller, the R.A.'s second foray into painting primarily consisted of getting paint on his hands and the stroller and not much on the Batman decoration.  He dodged and weaved his way back into the stroller, again doing his best to buckle himself in, yelling the entire time.  I'm not fluent in "R.A.-Speak" but I'm fairly confident he was yowling, "What in the Kitchen God's name is wrong with you people?  You are not following protocol.  You drag me to Kitchen God knows where to do Kitchen God knows what.  And then you have the temerity to say it's fun.  FUN?  Seriously?  I have paint all over my hands and I didn't even mean to put it there!  We are leaving NOW!"

During all this high drama my daughter was quietly and contentedly painting away on her own unicorn piece.  It's not that she doesn't care about her brother.  It's just that if she allowed every R.A. crisis to interrupt her endeavors she'd spend her entire life unfinished - unfinished meals, unfinished television shows, unfinished unicorns, etc.  She's just trying to live her life despite the drama. 

My husband and I finally, yet grudgingly, admit defeat.  He stays with my daughter so that she can finish her unicorn and so that he can finish Batman.  I take the R.A. for a walk in the mall - he in his stroller, of course. 

The R.A. was so wound up he was stimming his hands to beat the band.  We walked for a bit and then stopped and sat and watched the passing freak show.  This the R.A. quite liked.

After I deemed enough time had passed for my husband and daughter to have finished their creations, we headed back to the plaster shop.  As the stroller pulled up outside the plaster shop, the R.A. started whining.  Luckily dad and daughter had just completed their projects and we were able to hustle out of the store.  I have a feeling the R.A. is traumatized by the plaster shop experience and we are going to have to restrict ourselves to the opposite side of the mall.  Thank the Kitchen God the plaster place isn't close to any mall stores we regularly frequent.

We needed to leave the items at the store for 30 minutes to dry so we decided to hit the food court and have lunch.  The R.A. enjoys the food court and we hoped it would calm him down.  Unfortunately,  by now the R.A. is completely wigged out and spends lunch ranting.  My husband and I, fearing we are living on borrowed lunch time, shove our food into our mouths, barely chewing.  Another spectacularly enjoyable dining experience. 

In a last ditch attempt to placate the R.A. we rolled to the candy store.  Peace at last!  Finally contented, the R.A. slumps, relaxed, in his stroller sucking a "yawyee posh."  Kitchen God bless those sweet confections!

We did have to return to the dreaded plaster shop to pick up the decorations.  This time the R.A. and I stay outside the shop of horrors while my husband and daughter fetch their items.  I park the R.A. next to a clear plastic wall where he can watch people coming up the escalator which he digs, conveying his interest by flicking the wall and rocking in his seat.  He was probably thinking it was the best part of his day.  Thankfully nobody on the escalator was carrying any plaster decorations. 



The Kitchen God

The R.A. is not really a church going man.  It's not for lack of trying or even because he doesn't like it.  It's more his interpretation of appropriate church behavior and the congregation's interpretation of appropriate church behavior are extremely different.  Like at the playground, we don't have loads of friends at church.  It's yet another place that when people see us coming they sigh loudly or try to move somewhere else without looking like they are trying to move somewhere else and that it's because of us.  It's awkward for everyone.  I often want to reassure them and tell them I don't blame them and if I could sit somewhere else I would (but my husband won't let me - I know, I've tried.)

The R.A. doesn't have lots of verbal language skills.  But every once in a while he says something surprising - such as the time my family was scootching into the pew at church.  The R.A. was standing on the seat.  He turned to the people behind him and said, very very clearly, "Oh, sh#*!"  Twice.  It took him months to master "kwakah" (cracker) but he nailed sh#* on his first attempt.  Being the stellar parents that we are, my husband and I didn't look at the R.A. or even at each other, pretending we didn't hear the R.A.  But we all heard him.  I bet they heard it clear as a bell up in the choir loft - at the church further down the road.

Then there was the time at church when the priest was thanking the congregation for their prayers for his father who had recently had surgery.  For some reason the R.A. found this incredibly amusing and broke into hysterical laughter.  The more the priest talked about his father's condition the more the R.A. laughed. Did you hear the one about the father's father?  Hilarious! 

He loves music, even church music.  But once the final notes of the opening hymn start to fade, the R.A. is ready for some new entertainment.  Being someone who believes in taking the old bull by the horns, the R.A. doesn't mind providing it himself.  To start off, he looks within the pew for some pleasant diversion.  The R.A. very much enjoys walking across the pews, regardless of people already sitting in them.  His family doesn't mind leaning forward and sitting perched on the edge of the seat and getting punched in the back but unfortunately other parishioners sharing the pew are not as keen about sitting like that (I know.  What's up with that?  Unreasonable, right?)  After several wrestling matches involving the R.A., my husband, and myself where we attempt to prevent the R.A. from pew walking, the R.A. now looks elsewhere for amusement.  So he bolts out of the pew with my husband in hot pursuit.  The R.A. finds this hilarious.  He laughs upon pew re-entry, probably thinking, "You should see your faces!  Look at the big man.  Could his face be any redder?  A riot!  Good times.  Good times indeed."  My husband doesn't look quite as jolly.  One time the R.A. engaged in an Olympic worthy bolt, really challenging himself.  He didn't just bolt down the aisle - he bolted down the aisle, through the back lobby, shoved past the organist, out the door, down the church steps (of which there were many as the church is a Gothic design - I told you he outdid himself.  It's like he's preparing for some sort of Autism Iron Man competition), to the sidewalk.  For a big man my husband has a lot of hustle and managed to grab the R.A. just before he hit the street.  Since that day, except for holidays, the R.A. has been on church sabbatical and my husband and I take turns bringing our daughter or as we fondly refer to her "our little neo-pagan" (she thinks the R.A. is lucky to have autism because he doesn't have to go to church - "What a gyp!")

But don't assume that the R.A. is not a spiritual man.  He worships at home.

In our kitchen is a small bookcase in which various cookbooks are kept.  Recently the bookcase has become extremely interesting to the R.A., this interest illustrated by his jumping up and down in front of it and flicking the cookbooks with his fingers while making noises that sound like chanting.  He will do this for a bit and then stop and then start up again.  To me it looks like he is worshipping at some sort of Betty Crocker shrine.  The repetitive jumping, flicking, and chanting are like some sort of religious ritual.  I do think it's fascinating that the R.A.'s shrine of choice involves cookbooks considering due to his food allergies and food texture issues he wouldn't eat at least 99.9% of any of the recipes that were in the cookbooks.  I guess like any true religion, his is also full of conundrums.  I'm dying to see if the R.A. starts leaving offerings to his kitchen god - lollipops and bits of Pringles, maybe a Thomas train.  All I know is I hope he's saying a few prayers for me.  It certainly couldn't hurt.

Let Them Eat Cake!

Because I sure as hell won't! The Reluctant Astronaut

This past Sunday an amazing thing happened.  Well, a couple of amazing things happened.  First, the R.A. sat at a dining room table in a chair while other people were also sitting at the table.  He then allowed the other people to remain at the table.   The R.A. toddled over himself, bringing his Pringles and juice, plopped down on the chair and began eating, looking very much like a "regular" person.  I nearly fell over I was so surprised.  Normally the R.A.'s preferred method of eating is a grazing system.  He strolls around, stops, picks up an item of food, eats a bit (or merely contemplates eating it and tosses it to the ground as he deigns it is unworthy of consumption), then resumes his wanderings.  No wonder the R.A. hardly weighs anything.  He's perpetually burning calories, even while eating.  The calories don't have a chance to set in.

But it got even more amazing.

There was birthday cake at the gathering.  Every once in a while, more for sh#*s and giggles, my husband and I attempt to try the R.A. on a "new" food.  Apparently, on Sunday, we were feeling a bit "devil may care" as my husband and I decided to see if the R.A. would try some cake.

Due to his severe food allergies which manifested themselves when the R.A. was a baby, the R.A. has never had a bite of ye ol' typical cake and frosting - birthday cake.  I remember when the time rolled around for his first birthday I researched "allergy" birthday cakes.  I came upon a series of allergy cookbooks authored by a woman whose son had food allergies.  She had a recipe for a birthday cake and swore it was so scrumptious that it was the only cake she served at her son's birthday party for all the guests, those with allergies and those without..  With an endorsement like that, I made it for the R.A.'s first birthday (also providing a "regular" birthday cake for attendees.)  Let me just say that if my first ever orientation to cake was that cake, I too would never touch another piece of cake in my whole entire life.  That cake wasn't nasty.  It wasn't good enough to be nasty.  The cake was so gross that it was spit out of one's mouth immediately upon entry.  I couldn't believe the cookbook author made her guests eat it.  She was probably one of those overbearing cows that everyone was terrified of so they didn't dare tell her how gross-tacular the cake was.  Heck, they probably didn't dare try to bow out of her spawn's blasted birthday party. That cake was so bad that I brought it into my work where those people eat pretty much anything including expired condiments, two day old donuts left an entire weekend in the open air, and refrigerator items that are so old that they no longer resemble what they were in their past lives.  They passed on that cake.  It didn't help that the cake looked like cow patties wrapped in tar (but not as airy and light as cow patties wrapped in tar).  You couldn't even rise above, "I bet it tastes better than it looks." 

The following year I found a recipe for an edible allergy cake.  Honestly, this cake was pretty good.  It was actually a cake that they used to make during World War Two when there was rationing.  Fortunately it didn't taste like it has been made during World War Two.  Unfortunately, either the R.A.'s autism had really set in and his food texture issues started as he refused the cake or the damage had been done by the previous year's "cake" debacle and he refused the cake.  Luckily my brother really liked the cake and ate the majority of it.  I had been threatened by co-workers not to bring in any cake leftovers.

Back to Sunday.  We laid the cake out in front of the R.A. as he sat at table.  My husband and I were fully prepared for him not only to refuse the cake but to smear it on the table and squish it into the floor  to demonstrate his annoyance (we weren't at our house which explains our cavalier attitude about this anticipated possible and highly probable outcome.)  We even included a fork, something extremely foreign to the R.A. as he is strictly a finger food man.  Everyone sat very still and watched.  Initially the R.A. sat, looking quite puzzled.  He raised his hands over the cake.  My husband and I moved closer, on the ready for when the R.A. grabbed the plate and tossed it to the ground.  All of a sudden the R.A.'s hands froze over the cake.  He cocked his head and then picked up the fork (we took a step back in case he used it like a shiv.)  The R.A. then began to attack the cake, stabbing at it repeatedly until the cake was nothing more than crumbs.  He seemed to quite enjoy himself, ceasing only when he smeared frosting on his hand, thus wigging himself out and ending "The Great Cake Massacre."  Believe it or not, this was a victory of sorts.  With the R.A., as with many people with autism, the first step with anything new is tolerance.  Therefore, the fact that the R.A. interacted with the cake was an extremely good thing.  We're hoping he'll expand this positive interaction to people sans fork stabbing.  Baby steps.  Baby steps.

Mall Rats

Another big Saturday night for the family - this time we hit the mall.  We do go to the mall fairly regularly.  I think I've spent more time at the mall as a parent than I did as a teenager which is amazing considering as a teenager I worked in a mall.  We have become mall rats primarily because I get to the point where I look at my husband and say through clenched teeth: "We have got to get these people out of my house."  As we ain't exactly millionaires, we tend to patronize establishments that are cheap - parks, library programs (for my daughter, not my son), Sonic (added bonus - we don't have to leave the car and they have ice cream), and the mall.

As with most things in our lives, the whole mall endeavor is rife with routine.  The R.A. will not walk on his own steam in the mall.  In the mall parking lot, he will only exit the car if it is clearly evident that we have brought his stroller.  It's like he's being transported in his royal litter, feeding into his Julius Cesar complex.  I have visions of the R.A. being 32 years old and my elderly husband and my elderly self struggling to push him along.  My biggest fear is that we won't be able to find a stroller big enough for him.  Maybe we could pimp something out for him - mag wheels and huge sound system that blasts Backyardigans tunes.  Then we definitely won't be able to get him out of it.  Add a lollipop holder and it would be irresistible.

The R.A. loves the mall.  He sits in the stroller, leaning forward, his hands flapping like mad.  He is so "flap happy" I'm nervous that one day he's going to be uber excited and end up slapping himself silly.  For the R.A. the mall is the ultimate people watching experience.  His little head swivels around as if he's watching a Williams sisters' tennis match on ultimate fast forward.  He's afraid he's going to miss something.  Looking at the mall's clientele, it's quite a freak show and therefore understandable that the R.A. would feel this way.  He's probably thinking, "And they think I'm the strange one.  Did you see that girl's outfit?  Just cause they make them in your size, honey, doesn't mean you should wear them.  Did you see that guy?  Someone should tell him he missed the Lynard Skynard tribute band auditions." 

Although there are restaurants in the mall we've never eaten in one as a family.  We are strictly food court folks.  My husband and I understand that the restaurants could never offer the R.A. the same stimulation that the food court does.  This stimulation is important to us too as it allows us several precious moments to eat our own food.  The only down side to our mall's food court is that they do not have a McD.  They do have a Burger King whose biggest drawback is that they are not McD.  However, sometimes the R.A. is so whacked out with excitement that he forgets himself and does eat the BK fries.  Other times we put them out for him in proper formation and he acts like we're offering him store brand dog food.  On occasion he lets this ride, too caught up in the drama of the mall to be bothered.  I also think it's extremely hard to actually eat when one is flapping for England* (one day he's just going to propel himself right up into the air.)

After our meal we stroll the mall.  Every now and then we do try to remove the R.A. from the stroller and have him walk.  Most children fight parents over being put into the stroller.  True to form, the R.A. battles us over getting out of the stroller.  For some reason, leaving the perceived security of the stroller terrifies the bejaysus out of him.  I guess it's understandable.  Our world doesn't make sense for the R.A.  That must be extremely frightening.  Add in the mall freaks and it has to be positively terrifying.

One store is a must stop - the candy store.  Out of the thousands of sweet treats housed there, the R.A.'s candy of choice is a lollipop.  It's one of those lollies that are used to make up candy bouquets.  His fondness for these lollies started a couple of years back.  On a mall visit we hit the candy store so that my daughter could get a candy treat.  The R.A. had a total nutty over a lolly.  At that time we didn't even know he knew what a lolly was.  But his extremely animated (slightly violent) reaction to the lolly convinced us he sure did.  The R.A. has lots of horrible food allergies.  We didn't want to get him the lolly as we didn't know if there was something in it he was allergic to. (The R.A. is so sensitive that one of the workers in the candy factory could have had a cat owning aunt that lived 3,000 miles away from the factory worker, that the factory worker had never met and the R.A. would have had an allergic reaction based on that.)  The R.A. had a full blown tantrum over the lolly.  We bought him the lolly, deciding it was tightly wrapped and the R.A. wouldn't be able to open it.  He would probably be content to simply have the lolly.

Of course on the ride home the R.A. opened it.  My husband looked in the rear view mirror and discovered the R.A. happily sucking away on the lolly.  We handled it as we do most crisis situations - we panicked.

"Get the epipen!"  My husband yelled.

"I don't have it!" I wailed.

"Shouldn't we be carrying it with us for these kinds of moments?" My husband asked/hollered.  "Where is it?"

"At home."

"At home?  Why in God's name is it at home?" My husband demanded.

"I was afraid we would lose it!" I roared back.  Let me justify this - we lose a lot of stuff.  This is supported by the fact that my husband didn't say anything else after that statement.  (Don't you dare judge us!  It's not as if we are up for "Parents of the Year.")

I undid the seatbelt and twisted myself around so I could keep watch on the R.A. to make sure he didn't go into anaphylactic shock.  Fortunately he didn't and we added yet another "food" to his miniscule list of "foods" that the R.A. could ingest without an allergic reaction.  So see, if it weren't for our lax parenting skills we never would have known that.  There is a method to our madness.

*"________ for England" is an expression meaning to do something excessively.  I use that expression frequently and frequently find people don't know what the hell I mean. 

Baaaaddd Boy

The R.A. is not very verbal, not in English or any recognizable Earth language, anyway.  Sometimes he does have these very long, very animated monologues.  These happen mostly in his room.  Actually I think they are rants against his astonishingly dense parents.

When the R.A. was a baby he was not a big sleeper (Well, okay, he still isn't a sleep super fan.)  But being industrious, even from such a young age, he felt the need to occupy his time.  He did this by crying - a lot and loudly.  The R.A. also made these noises that my husband and I started referring to as his "Goat Boy" sounds.  We spent many a night being tormented by those "Goat Boy" sounds. I swear some nights I was begging for him to shriek like his sister used to.  After being so terribly sleep deprived for so long I shuddered every time I heard "Baa Baa Black Sheep."  Still not a favorite.

Why I bring this up - Tonight the R.A. and I conversed longer than we have in a while.  Here is a portion of the transcript:

R.A. Baaaaaa

R.A. M.*  Baaaaaa

R.A. Baaaaaa

R.A. M.*  Baaaaaa

R.A. Baaaaaa

R.A. M.*  Baaaaaa

You get the drift.  It went on for quite some time. 

At that time it seemed fairly innocent, mundane even.  Upon reflection, now I'm afraid that during that conversation I inadvertently agreed to something:

R.A. This evening I am going to take every can of Pringles and every bottle of ketchup that we own and then climb up to the roof.  After I consume all of that I am going to take off all my clothes and walk tippy toe across the roof.  And I am not going to take my allergy medicine.

R.A.M* Okay.

*Reluctant Astronaut's Mom