I'm So Out of Practice That This Post Has No Title

They say the third time's the charm. I guess we'll find out. Because, after a bit over a year hiatus, I have decided to come back to blogging. When I stopped, I didn't think it would be forever, it would just be until I fixed some things. Well, I fixed those things, and more things needed fixing. And I was going to come back, only, I was happy. Really happy. And the idea of coming back? I was burnt out. I realized that the blog had created a harpy that pretty much capitalized on everything negative.

That's not who I am. So I decided to take a break. A crappy experience at my fourth BlogHer made the decision easy. I don't belong there any longer. And the fact that I wasn't missed and felt a bit sorry for myself made it easy to stay away. Friendships changed, and passed away, writing evolved and seasons changed. I am a different person from when I started. So if I came back to blogging, I had to decide, for whom did I want to write?

As my children grow, so does their need for privacy. The stories aren't mine to tell anymore; they belong to their owners.My children have a presence on the Internet, I have to be respectful of their boundaries as much as possible. This left me with a conundrum: what do I have left to say, if not about them? I have my own stories, it's true. I just had to find them again.

When I started this blog six years ago, we were deep in the throes of autism in our house. The Autism Monster had eaten my children and I first started blogging to make sense of it all. Times change. It wasn't the autism that changed...it was me. I have more patience, and I have more tolerance, I think. I missed writing, but I didn't miss who I was becoming through the blog scene. I needed some distance.

I started writing to write. I was never really comfortable with what this medium has become. I don't like selling my soul for products. I am not a shill. And maybe others can get free stuff and not be influenced in their reviews. I could not. Or at least, I was never sure if I could or not. So I decided to just...stop. I dropped all forms of social media for a long time. I stopped writing everywhere.

While I was gone, I thought hard about what I wanted this space to be. And I decided I am not just going to come here and complain. If I need to vent, I will find

a therapist.

I have been there, and done that, and she released me because she decided that under the circumstances, I was doing damn well. So. What I want this space to be is a dynamic, growing changing life record, of sorts. Many things have changed, as you will come to see, if you follow along. Two graduations, some braces, a joy found, a childhood lost...these are the stories. Would you like to follow along? Come back, grab a cup of tea, curl up with your cat, or a comfy pillow, and we'll begin. Again.

How to get waited on hand and "foot"

My father always said I couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time. I would have argued with him, but I was too busy falling on my face. Despite my lack of coordination, I have been pretty lucky. I have only ever broken three bones in my lifetime. The first time I broke a bone, I was in my early twenties; it was my ankle. I was taking the stairs two at a time at work, and rolled my ankle, landing on it, from one step to the ground floor. I broke my foot in three places. (My friends' response to that? "Don't go there, anymore!" Get it? Yeah, it wasn't that funny then, either). After that, over the years, I have broken my little toe, twice. The first time, I hit my son's Rescue Heroes fire truck. The second time, I slammed my toe into the Lego table, and I went one way, the toe went the other. Let me just say: "OW."

Honestly, though, when I twisted my ankle this weekend by taking a wrong step from the sidewalk into the flower bed, it really, really hurt. I have spent the last few days icing it and finally went to the doctor on Tuesday because I feared I had broken my foot. Thankfully, I managed to save the iPad from plummeting to the cement in what would have been a certain death. The fall I took instead was a small price to pay, but I paid dearly. The verdict: severe ankle sprain. I actually pulled some tendons. The doctor gave me a brace and I am supposed to gradually start bearing weight on it. But for now, I am mostly confined to the couch with my foot up while everyone else around me is a whirling dervish trying to accomplish what is day-to-day routine for me: cleaning, cooking, taking care of pets, driving kids where they need to go... You would think I am enjoying this, but I can't. I don't do well being waited upon. And I really don't do well watching other people work and not accomplish things to my standards. So I am constantly getting up to do things, and my family is constantly making me sit on the couch again. Very frustrating.

When I do venture off the couch, it's slow going. I can't walk fast at all, I sort of shuffle around, dragging my bad ankle behind me. Right now, I am looking at a least a few weeks of the "zombie shuffle." So much fun. I sit on the couch, and the cat lies down on the blanket next to me. With the walking stick and the cat I am one shark tank away from being a super-villain, I suppose. I would also like a trap door, please.

Still, all is not lost. At least I match my toenails, now. It's something.

What Not to Do With Your Underwear

I walked into my hotel room and stopped short. The maid had been there.. The wastebasket had been emptied, the sink was wiped down and the beds had been made. Housekeeping had made another discovery, as well. How embarrassing. My turquoise boy-cut Hanes underwear were on top of my pillow, staring at me.

I was in town for the womens' blogging convention, Blogher. Leaving my hotel room bright and early, I was rushing to get to breakfast and then my next session. That's how Blogher is..there is always somewhere to be, and always five minutes ago. Or maybe that's just me.

I have a terrible habit of leaving my underwear under my pillow at home. My giant dog, who can put her head upon my higher-than-normal bed, has a tendency to steal underwear that are left at the foot of the bed at night. After a few mornings of waking up to find my unmentionables had become a snack, I took aversive action. Into the hamper with those skivvies. She found them there, too. Yum yum. Munch, munch, munch, she said. That's when my underwear ended up under my pillow when I sleep.

So here I was, at the Marriott, 5-star resort, and the housekeeper thinks I am

1) a pig.
OR
2) so drunk I either
A) forgot where I put my underwear
B) got lucky and was so carried away I didn't think about where my underwear were

Unfortunately, the truth is a lot more boring. I didn't get drunk. I certainly didn't have sex with anyone. I simply went on auto-pilot without thinking. It's like when you drive the kids to school everyday and then forget that it's a weekend and you are going to the grocery store and you drive there only you end up halfway to school? Again, just me?

It seems silly, I won't ever see the housekeeping staff again. But I realize...I am so boring. I can't help wishing I had at least had sexier, more interesting underwear. Something hot pink, lacy, racy and thongy? I have those, I just didn't wear them. When you get to be my age, sometimes comfort wins over sex appeal. And since I knew no one would be seeing my underwear but me, I didn't really worry about it. (What comes to mind is the age-old momism, "Did you put on clean underwear? What if you get in an accident??") Instead, the maid not only saw my underwear, she had to touch them.

When I left the hotel room, I cleaned up after myself, picking up trash, making my bed, rinsing out the sink. I checked under the pillow twice. And I left a big tip.

My check-in tip on foursquare: "Check under your pillow so you find your underwear before the maid does," Social media for the win. Don't say you haven't been warned.

It wasn't about the dog park, it's about autism

One of the advantages of having a blog (not to include the adoration, popularity and buckets of money being thrown my way) is that I have a forum where I get the last word. Sometimes, that's helpful. So I can tell you about my run in with the crazy woman at the dog park last night and that might be healing.

Last night was just like any other summer night. The days are so hot that we wait to take the dog to the park until evening. That works well, most of the time. Poppy was her usual boisterous self, bouncing from one dog to the next, having a grand old time. There is a smallish Austrailian Sheperd that is pretty obnoxious. It flits back and forth, trying to herd the dogs, barking in their faces. I have seen it there for the last week or so. It likes to bark at Poppy. She pretty much takes it stride, the way she takes it all in stride. She is big, bouncy, but harmless. She is big, and black, and that seems to put people on edge who aren't familiar with Newfoundlands. Read: just about most people. There is even a name for it among newfy owners: Big Black Dog Syndrome.

Poppy figures that since this dog is yapping in her face, she must want to play, so they were chasing and bouncing, so far nothing out of the ordinary. The little dog was on its back and Poppy was standing over it, the way dogs do. This crazy nut job went over and started kicking my dog! You need to understand, I am rarely more than six feet away at any given time, and usually even closer than that. I am the original "helicopter parent" when it comes to my dog. At any point, if she starts getting too rambunctious, or if the other dog looks like he isn't having fun, I pull her out of the fray, and we take a break. I am a responsible owner. I read books, I educate myself. I have learned dog body language and figured out what to watch for. My dog is not aggressive. And even in play, I would never allow my dog to go too far with another dog. So when this, for want of a better word, bitch, started kicking my dog I lost it.

I would never hit anyone. But I started yelling at her. She tried to say my dog was "biting" hers. Her dog was driving the play! Some other guy (I cannot call him a man) who was so good at watching his dog that I never even knew which dog was his (that's sarcasm) said it was my fault and I needed to get my dog under control. Know this: Poppy is at the dog park five or six times a week. She does not have a control problem. I can pull her out when the play gets to be too much. She takes a time out. After she was attacked by another dog (and I was bitten) I worked really hard on this. His accusations were completely unfounded.

One of the most frustrating things that I find about myself is that if I am in the right and I feel persecuted, I cannot have an argument when it gets heated. I lose all eloquence and cannot form a coherent thought. Basically, I sound like an idiot. This time, not only did that happen, I was going to cry. Time to get the hell out of there. My brain short-circuited. As I was leaving, I uttered words to make a sailor blush. I am not proud of my behavior, and I am furious at myself for acting that way. Fight or Flight kicked in and I lost it.

Once I got to the car, I burst into tears, and promptly had a panic attack. I couldn't breathe and I felt like my heart was in shards. I continued to cry after we got home, locked myself in my room, and just couldn't function. What the hell is the matter with me? I just don't know. But after sleeping on it, I think I know a bit more of what set me off.

I have a stressful life. It isn't anyone's fault; it's just the way the cards were dealt. Most of the time, it's ok. Last night, it just hit the fan. I was devastated that someone was rejecting my dog. While you may want to laugh at that, consider this: it was just one more special-needs "kid" in my family who was snubbed. In other words, it was a trigger for me.

For the last seventeen or so years, I have watched one or another of my children struggle to make friends, be accepted, be loved. I have stood by while being silently judged, "WHY can't you stop that child from tantruming/having trouble with social stimuli/being rigid?" I have endured the cold shoulder from parents who have decided that my child isn't worthy of their child's time because she is "different." I have watched my son embarrass himself in front of others and be completely oblivious of their reaction. I have seen my daughter be left out of social events because she doesn't like the same things as her peers, and watched her cry over her lack of acceptance. So, no, I will not apologize for losing it at the dog park when people who had no idea about actual dogs judged my dog as beneath theirs. I will not.

I realize how ridiculous this sounds. She's a dog. I get it. For me, it was about more than the dog. I had a reason to be angry over my dog's treatment, but the anger I really felt was misplaced. It was grief.

Over the years, I have had to come to terms with the fact that I did not give birth to cheerleaders. There is no Big Man On Campus in my home. Indeed, there is no campus. None of my children will get the lead in the school play, though they might be in the chorus. I did not give birth to "popular" kids. The phone doesn't ring for play dates much. I am actually ok with this. What I am not ok with is how others see them. They are smart, generally well-mannered (if you don't count the twelve year old and his twelve-year old boy behavior) and loving children. They deserve better. They deserve friends who like them for who they are. And they deserve grown ups, who should know better, that give them a chance and don't automatically write them off as playmate for their kids because they are "different." I am fucking tired of this. That's right, I just used "fucking" on my blog, for the first time, ever. I am done.

So. You are on notice. If you snub my child, I will call you on it. I will try to do it kindly, but I will do it. In an era when we are trying to pay attention to others' rights and difficulties, I will call you on bad behavior, leaving out my children simply because they have autism. I am done being nice. Now I am fighting back.

Talking Sex with your Son who has Autism...and not wanting to jump off a bridge afterwards. Mostly.

I had “The Talk” with my son. We both survived, barely. He is twelve now, and I know what you’re thinking: WHY are you just now having this discussion with him? Do you live under a rock? Don’t you know what kids are capable of getting into these days? Do you want your kid to be a statistic?

Believe me, I get it. But you have to understand…I have tried to have The Talk with my son before this, many times. Each time, he politely rebuffed me.

My son has High-Functioning Autism. It is as the name implies. Some professionals call it Asperger’s Syndrome. It means he has trouble with social cues, reading body language, some processing problems as well as trouble controlling his impulses, like anger. He is easily embarrased, so it didn’t surprise me that he did not want to discuss his burgeoning sexuality with his mother. This is the kid who hides his eyes if I take him with me to mall and we happen to pass the lingerie store. There have been no shortage of attempts on my part to usher him into the ways of the world. He always swore he was not interested.

So when I found that he had been googling, “penis” and “breasts” I figured, protest though he may, it was time. I am a smart woman. I have safe search on, so he didn’t find anything except Wikipedia pages…no trauma. I get that kids, boys in particular, can be curious. I am just thankful that no damage was done! And I am also grateful that I have enough technical savvy to know how to lock down the computers!

So, how do you talk with your son about something you both find highly embarrassing without losing your mind? The answer, it seems, is just do it. Do not make a big deal about it.

Five Ways to Discuss The Subject Without Wanting to Run and Hide

1. Be as matter-of-fact as you can. Lay out the information without a lot of emotion, as though you were tutoring someone who speaks a different language. We are talking autism here. That is, after all, what you are doing.

2. Refrain from idioms, editorializing, and heavy opinion. All of these will be ignored by a kid with autism. He probably won’t get most of them, anyway. It is easy to get “on a roll” and end up losing the kid halfway through the process.

3. Don’t bother asking, “Do you understand?” He probably won’t admit it either way. Just lay out the information as best you can. If you are good at reading your child, you can elaborate if need be.

4. This is a good time to explain society’s views on women, respect, pornography…just try to do it without making the kid feel belittled. Did I like that my son googled body parts? NO. Did I tell him I don’t want him to do it anymore? YES. Did I make him feel like a bad person? Absolutely not. Kids need guidance, and that’s what I gave him.

5. Refrain from what I call “Aesoping” even though it is very satisfying as a parent. This is basically when you say, “I told you so!” Kids learn from their experiences. You can certainly point out the learning, but don’t rub their nose in it. That only serves to make you feel bigger than he is. One-upping a child doesn’t make us better, it makes us bullies. And with a kid with autism, it makes him shut down.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m no Pollyanna. It’s not all roses and sunshine around here. I was floored when I found out my son had been …exploring google. It wasn’t easy. But instead of making it about me, and my parenting, and what I am doing right or wrong, I made it about my son. Having a child going through puberty is difficult. I can only hope I have set the groundwork for my son, and that if he does have questions later he can ask instead of looking in all the wrong places for answers.

All in all, it was a painless process for us both. But I have to admit: I am very glad that I only have one son! Somehow, talking to the girls is just so much easier.

It's Never a Good Day to Say Goodbye

Last week, I said goodbye to a dear friend, Gregg Gallagher. He was a sweet man with a quick wit and an easy smile. He put the "social" in my "social media." He was the first person I met on twitter, and one of the first people I met in person from "the Cloud." (Not everyone is an ax murderer or an imaginary unicorn!) I attended a few meet-ups that he attended as well. Gregg was a connector. He enjoyed his friends, and he enjoyed creating circles of friends around him. He hosted potlucks, and Rock Band sessions...epic Rock Band sessions. We laughed, and ate and drank...and it was good. Because of him, I have a wonderful circle of friends. That's who Gregg was.

Before Christmas, he was diagnosed with cancer. He fought, and it looked like he was winning. But it continued to progress, quickly. A few months ago, we got together for a Rock Band party that none of us knew was going to be our last. Soon after, he was in the hospital. We visited him. He never went home again. He was transferred to a rehab facility, and though JNerd and I were able to visit him a few times there, he finally went to hospice in his son's home. I had hoped to visit him there, but he died soon afterwards. I regret that I didn't get to spend time with him there...it all happened so fast!

He was a champion of social media, and few know that he was instrumental in bringing the internet to AT&T in the beginning. World Net was his baby, along with his team. His team won an award that sits in the Smithsonian because of it. He was the one who turned me on to the iPad. I was the one who talked him into getting his greyhound, Ares. "You need a dog, Gregg," I said.

Gregg's hobby was photography. I loved the way he saw the world. He helped me with my camera, and got me excited about taking pictures. Just after he died, I saw this picture again. The finality in it made me ache.

photo by Gregg Gallagher
The copy from the above photo is: "You may have gone back to school, but you'll be missing me come Spring Break."

You don't know how right you were, Gregg.
Last Saturday dawned warm and sunny. The perfect California day. We boarded a boat with some of Gregg's closest friends, who, because of Gregg, became our friends as well, and we laid him to rest. Afterwards, we had a luncheon at the Bluewater Grill, complete with a Guinness and some calamari for Gregg.

No one touched his Guinness.

To you, my friend. May you be at peace.

Help for Christchurch after Earthquake

On Tuesday, Christchurch, New Zealand, one of the five largest cities in the country, was rocked by a 6.3 earthquake that caused buildings to collapse, leaving hundreds trapped and sixty-five dead, as of last count. Several aftershocks have left more damage in their wake, and the people of Christchurch sit on pins and needles waiting for what’s to come.

Last September, a series of earthquakes tore through Christchurch, weakening buildings, but little else. This time, the damage is far and widespread. Buildings that have been standing for hundreds of years have crumbled under the weight of this quake. Large cracks in the roads have appeared. California? This? Could be US.

I know, not my usual upbeat, humorous piece. But you see, I was just in Christchurch, last year. I fell in love with the historic old city, and I am so saddened to see what has happened there. And what do politically conscious, social media types do when we feel like we can’t do anything? We write. We publicize. So.

If you feel that you might want to help, you can give to the

Red Cross NZ

if you want to follow trends on twitter:

#eqnz
#christchurch
#NewZealand
#NiewZeeland (Dutch)
And I, for one, will remember my beloved Christchurch like this:


















In time, buildings can be rebuilt. The people of Christchurch? Well, that's another thing entirely.
T.

Christmas Comes But Once a Year (thank GOD!)

I am not a fan of the holidays. I know, hard to believe, right? My mother is a huge lover of the Christmas season. She would bake for days, shop, and stay up all night to wrap presents on Christmas Eve. Her packages were works of art. The magical mornings of peeking at the tree while it was still dark to find that Santa had been there and artfully arranged the presents are some of the best memories of my childhood. And I want my children to have that, I do. And I try to do all of the things my mother did, but I just...can't. And so. I pretty much hate Christmas.

Every year I tell myself it will be different. I will start earlier. I will have a better attitude. But by mid-December I am usually stressed out, ready to curl up in a fetal position, and wait for it all to be over. Instead, I pull myself up, give myself a good talking-to, and finish the preparations at the last minute amidst much self-loathing. It isn't fun.

And this year? Is going to be even less fun. My eldest, JBug, goes in for spinal surgery on the 15th of December, which means I have to have everything done TEN days earlier than usual. She will be in the hospital for at least five days, but should be home for Christmas. So I will have little time to scour the shops, maul the mall, or gilt the gift. I have to just get it over with quickly.

So on that note, I am trying to get into the spirit faster than usual, which is why I found this little video of Newfoundland dogs dressed up for Christmas and carrying things in carts. I hope it brings you joy.

T.

It's up to us: what will we do about bullying?

Today's post was written by my 16 year old daughter. Please read it, I think she has something important to say. xoxo T.

Tyler Clementi.

Asher Brown.

Seth Walsh.

Justin Aaberg.

Raymond Chase.

William (Billy) Lucas.

You might not have heard these names. These are all boys who committed suicide in the last few months after being bullied due to their sexual orientation. Who knows what they felt? Alone, ostracized? Like life wasn't worth living. Like they didn't matter? Their acts of desperation could have gone unnoticed. Thing is, we saw. The internet saw. First one, then another, then hundreds, then thousands of people took a stand. In their own way, everyone said that these boys…and so many like them…matter.

Then, the internet spoke. (Well, it didn't really. It's inanimate. Go with me here, I'm making a point.)

It started with an idea.

Social media spread the idea to quite literally thousands of people.

The idea was simple: wear purple (the color of spirit on the LGBTQ flag) on October 20, 2010 in memory of those boys, and for all the other kids out there who may feel the same way.

So today, I wore purple. To my surprise, there were other kids in my (conservative Christian) class who wore purple. Not to mention the thousands of people all around the world. Teachers, parents, talk show hosts. We took a stand against bullying, against the idea that what happened to these boys was okay.

Bullying is common now. Before, insults were thrown in front of a class, maybe twenty people. Now, cyber bullying is the norm. Hateful anonymous comments, bringing down the person in front of everyone on the internet...whole schools. But kids will be kids, right? They need to suck it up. Learn to ignore it. A common answer to the problem, and not a solution.

But you know what?

I think it's going to be my generation that changes it. We know social media. Some of us communicate mostly through email, facebook and texting. We get how to make a difference. And we do. My generation will be the one that steps up and says it isn't okay.

It isn't okay to make fun of someone. To discriminate based on age, or race, or sexual orientation or disability or intelligence or anything else.

It isn't okay to have an Us vs. Them mentality.

It isn't okay to talk about how loving God is and then hate anyone who is different.

It isn't okay.

And when that happens, when we step up…it will change.

In 1983, D.A.R.E (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) was founded. It has changed lives. Imagine what it could be like if there was a similar approach to bullying. In one generation, D.A.R.E made drugs uncool. Nearly every school age kid knows what the red ribbon means. If something similar could be accomplished for bullying...imagine what could happen.

Hate is learned and we need to lead by example. The things we learn in kindergarten can affect the rest of our lives. If we start from the bottom and work up, we can change hearts. If we could show from the beginning that bullying isn't okay...just imagine it.

If we change the mindset behind bullying, imagine how drastically different our world might be.

It's going to start with us.

Now, don't just imagine it. Let's make it a reality.

Help my life has been stolen and replaced with an Edith Wharton novel

I think I've lost my mojo. No, really. I am not joking; it's not funny. I have never been one to complain, and I know how to avoid/block/ignore pain. The longest I have ever been down with anything was 3 days, and that was the Kill-An-Elephant-and-Leave-It-There-To-Rot flu. It got JNerd, too. We were both very, very sick. I think that was February, before last. So...2009? But lately? I am just...sick.

I wrote about it before...how after I came home from blogher, I was dealing with migraines, on a daily basis. They had me down, for a month. No joke. They started 8/5, and I saw the doctor on 9/2. All the time I was waiting? Languishing in a darkened room like some demented character out of a gothic novel. Talk about the drama! I spent so many days flat on my back I could have paid for my mortgage had I been doing anything more remotely interesting. Instead?Ice pack at the base of my skull, cold, weighted eye mask over my face. I did a lot of listening to tv...it was all I could do.

And now, thanks to a god-send of a doctor, who saw me in the grips of a terrible migraine attack and immediately fixed it with a shot of Imitrex and then a prescription, my head is better, or at least on its way to becoming better. But. There were...complications. I won't go into my bathroom habits, cause that shit lives forever on the internet, but let's just say they're non-


existent. at this point. And not from ...lack of trying. And then, there are complications to that.

And while all that sucks, what's worse is that my cycle is all screwed up. I have had not ONE, not TWO, but THREE periods in the last TWO months. Yep, that's right. Three. The only good news is that proves I am not pregnant. But I am sick of my period, sick of feeling sick and ready to get off my freaking bed. And I just..can't. I am achy, tired, bleeding. Despite this all, I am trying to find the funny, you know, fkeep up my spirits.

I am failing miserably. I have spent the last month begging off of most things I am supposed to be doing. I have missed karate, eye appointments and countless other things I am supposed to attend. I missed a good friend's birthday party, blog events, and just, everything. My house is a disaster, my dog is a monster (She needs my attention and training, no one can handle her the way I do) and my kids are being raised by wolves. ENOUGH. I have an MRI sometime in the next week or so. To make sure I am not dying of a brain tumor (I'm not.) I called the doctor's office and was told that all of my labs: thyroid, hormones, were normal.. Well, that's just awesome, possum!

Then tell me why I don't feel normal?? I am OVER this. I have never been down this long, and I am having a hard time seeing around it to the light at the end of the tunnel. Which is probably a bus, anyway.

ANd that is why I have lost my mojo.

posted from my iPad

Help, My Son Won't tell the TRUTH! (and yes, I CAN handle it)

Tuesdays are flashback days around here...which is really just an excuse for recycling a post you might not have seen. This week's post is about my son and the stage he went through with lying. Thankfully, it was short-lived, but at the time? I thought I would lose my mind.

Lately my son has been experimenting with creative truth-telling. Yes, it's a nice way to say he is lying his butt off. And it isn't like the things are that important. These exchanges are taking place with increasing frequency:

Me: Did you clean the cat box?

JBear: Yes, I cleaned the cat box, both the office and the bathroom. [earnest look on his face, not meeting my eyes, but then, with autism, he rarely meets my eyes]

[I check the box, it has not been cleaned]. Son, why did you tell me that you cleaned the litterbox when clearly you had not?

JBear: But I did. I cleaned it!

Me: JBear, I need the truth.

JBear: [scowling defiantly] I didn't clean it. I don't want to.

And then he goes and does whatever he was told to do in the first place. This can be anything from putting his clothes away, brushing his teeth, reading a book vs. playing Nintendo...

Now I know as a mother of a child with autism, I could be pleased by this latest development. Some idiots experts will tell you that a child with autism cannot lie. I present, exhibit #1: my son. And besides, being lied to is damned annoying. I want it to stop.

So I had a Come To Jesus talk with him today, and laid out some ground rules for him.

* You must try not to lie. A man/woman/person is only as good as his word, his honor is all he has. If he cannot be trusted, he will not have friends. (yes, some people hang out with other people who lie to them, but how do you ever know if they are telling you the truth?)

* Honor, meaning whether someone sees you as a person who is good and has integrity (can be trustworthy) will follow you the rest of your life.

* Character is who you are when no one is looking...do you take that cookie? Do you return that wallet?

* Your actions become your habits. If you continue to lie, it will become second-nature and you may not be able to stop.

There are such things as "social lies," and these can be complicated. But some situations are:

* If someone asks you if you like their haircut, I don't care if you think they look worse than a dog with it's butt shaved walking backwards. You do not get to say that to the person. It hurts feelings.

* You are not allowed to call your mother,"Old Lady," even if you do think 42 is old. There is a certain amount of respect that someone gets just for being older than you. Just because you think it doesn't mean you need to say it out loud. Engage your mouth filter.

* There are times you do not have to tell the whole truth to everyone, always. A bit is sufficient. People who call on the phone do not need to know your mother is in the bathroom, pooping.

* Sometimes it is kinder not to share the entire truth. You do not have the right to rub your intellect into others' faces, or make them feel small. Even if you really do know more about medieval weaponry than they do. /

* If you think someone is an idiot, keep it to yourself. Fighting words can get you into a fight. Yes, there are many idiots out there, but believe it or not, few actually know they are idiots. That's why they are idiots. Do not believe you are doing anyone a favor by removing the blinders from their eyes. They won't believe you anyway.

* There are times it is easier to go along with what someone says, rather than argue them into the ground. Exceptions to this are when your values are compromised, laws are broken or you feel uncomfortable in any way. (refer back to when people are idiots)

We have a long way to go in the area of truth-telling, but I believe we have a start now. Now comes the repetition. Did I forget any social lies that he needs to know?

What's the craziest white lie you know of...either your own, or someone else's?

Apparently, New York makes me sick

Sitting here in the lobby of the Sheraton, doing what bloggers do, you know. Which is? Find the nearest: 1) outlet for charging, iPad, phone, camera. 2) take advantage of free wifi in the lobby It's what we do. It's how we roll.

Speaking of rolling, I spent all day traveling from the OC to San Francisco (to pick up Califmom) and then from San Francisco, our non-stop flight stopped in Las Vegas. Awesome. And we had to actually deplane for 20 minutes before we could get back on again. Even. More. Awesome. By the time we got to New York, an entire day of traveling with only coffee, a horrible cheese plate and an even more horrible half a sandwich took it's toll. I was sick. DId I mention was up at 5:15 a.m. and went to bed at 2 a.m. Smart is NOT my middle name. Apparently.

So we catch a cab, after walking through a hot, humid airport that literally smelled like ass. And vomit. Can't forget that. Which is not conducive to keeping your lunch down if you happen to be ready to lose it, like I was. I bought some crackers and ginger ale and thought I was going to be ok.

Instead, my intro into a New York cab was throwing up in the back of it. SO. Not.Fair to have the hangover before I start drinking? And the weird thing, before that happened, my hands literally went numb. Long story short, turned out I had a migraine. After throwing up again in the hotel room, Leah gave me a magical unicorn pill (Imitrex, for migraines) and it made it all go away. So much so that when friends came a-callin I was able to jump up and party until dawn.

Night one, check.

T, who can't say so far that I love New York, but I love my friends. posted from my iPad

Maybe if I pack a lot of Xanax

This time tomorrow I will, with all good luck, be in NYC, hopefully in my hotel. Asleep. I have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn, but thankfully, Starbucks is open then. I was worried for a bit, JNerd said they were closed that early, but it turns out they understand that vampires like their coffee before the sun rises.

I will continue to blog, never fear. Wish me luck, and let's hope I am not like this guy:

I am not hugely afraid of flying, but it isn't my favorite thing to do. So I hope it goes well. I am already frustrated over paying for my ticket and THEN paying another $25 for my baggage. It's ridiculous. I could see if I was only flying a short distance, but coast to coast? They have to expect people to bring luggage! I am tired of the skinflinty cost-cutting that airlines do.

Still, it remains the best way to travel, so we all put up with the crap. Right? I am a bit worried about my puppy. She is forlorn. Following me all over the house, I know she must know something is up. Sad that I know the kids will be ok, yet am worried about the dog. What does that say about me?

T, who needs to be in bed!

Lullabye and good night, already..before I lock you in a closet*

I used to have alone time. It was wonderful. Nine o' clock rolled around and my kids were in bed. Oops, sorry! You have five minutes until bedtime. No I can't help it, that's the rule. As though it wasn't within my control. And they bought it. Never questioned it, it was a House Rule, and they would obediently trot off to bed. I was blessed. Until this year.

My oldest daughter, at 16, thinks she can stay up as late as she wants. There are times I go to bed in exasperation, telling her to lock up when she's done. Mostly, she stays out of our way, so out of sight is out of mind. Mostly. Now my son, He Who Used to Sleep by 9, is up past 10 as well. Puberty may be striking, and it is playing havoc with his sleep schedule. He used to be up with the sun, now he actually sleeps in a few days a week. But he is also not tired at bedtime, and too busy to follow the slumber rules. Trying to get him off of video games or to stop reading a book is damn near impossible. And when I do finally get him to go to bed (tonight was quite after 11) he gets up at least five times.

Tonight was no exception. I was being tag-teamed by the both of them.Finally, after medicine to help JBug's bug bites, a question or three, she finally left us alone enough to get through the television show we had on DVR.(Doctor Who, thank you very much). By that time, it was midnight. AND…the dog needed to go out. Pause the show, again. Then JBear showed up,with a broken fingernail, and needed a bandaid. And shortly after that, he needed Advil because his legs hurt. And a bit after that, he needed a drink. And then the bathroom. And, of course, each time, we paused the show and waited.

I don't know about you, but my Mom Sense just cannot relax as long as I have a kid who isn't tucked in for the night. Call it obsessive, call it anxiety-prone, if you'd like. I call it being on duty, 24/7. And I cannot let go. I have tried. But Mama Bear just stays at the ready. Once the little cubs are safe in their dens, I relent, breathe deeply, and have a martini. Of course, if they don't get into bed before midnight… no cocktails for me. And no cocktails makes for a very unhappy mama.

And, as the old adage goes, "If mama ain't happy, well you can just get your butt back to bed or so help me God, I won't be responsible for what happens next." Or something along those lines. I could be paraphrasing, but that's how I remember it, anyway.

*I am only kidding about that last part. Mostly.

How about you? How do you get your "alone time?"Click and tell me in comments

T, who is up way too late in order to get some time to herself

The Veggie Law... a revisit

I thought it would be fun to revisit some of my earlier posts, from years ago...just to get an idea of how far we have come. So, I present:

"They're yukky!"

I looked at my second born, my son, as he sat there, wiggling, lip curled and looking askance. Maybe if he didn't look at them, they would disappear. "I know you think that, but they are good for you. You need to eat a couple." He didn't answer, but returned his attention to his plate, pushing his fork around with disinterest. Suddenly, he brightened. "I don't really have to eat them. It's not the law."

I held back a smile. "Well, actually, it is a law. Kids under ten must eat at least 1 bite of vegetables. It's California state law."

I nibbled my nail while I waited to hear his answer. He regarded his plate, then me. "Even peas?" he asked. "Yes son, even peas." I almost felt badly at the untruth I was spreading, but hey, a kid has to eat his peas!

He sighed heavily, then picked up his fork. "If I was President I wouldn't have to eat these," he said.

"I am pretty sure even the President has to eat his peas, too. I think it's the law."

"Well, the President breaks the law, right? He could break the Vegetable Law. After all, he listened to other peoples' phone calls without asking."

Oh oh, thought to myself, now you've done it. The kid clearly hears talk radio even when you think he's not listening.

I made a mental note to refrain from listening to talk radio when he is around. Kids don't need to be burdened with the politics of grown ups, really. And President Bush's actions, as confusing as they are for adults, must be completely flummoxing for a child.

Again, I sit here, left wondering, what do I tell my children? When I explain to them we all have authorities over us, that's just the way it is, how do I explain that the President believes himself to be above the law? And since the President is such an Everyguy, and every kid can be President, what possible recourse do I have when my son refuses to eat his peas?

by the way, I did tell my son there is no such law about peas. But the law for corn still stands.

T, who figures eating veggies could be important

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Rule 1: Expect nothing but laughter

I don't find myself funny. I have been told people enjoy my humor, but honestly? Every time I hit publish, I second guess myself and have to walk away from the computer so that I don't delete what I wrote. They say that humor is a defense mechanism; a way to keep what cuts you in two from finishing the job. It is how I bind the wound and staunch the flow.

Life delivers the kill-bite, and laughing it off is my way of sidestepping the throat-ripping Pit Bull of Pissdom. That last bit didn't sound right. The Boxer of Bitchy Life? How about the Afghan of Autism? Ok, that is all kinds of ridiculous. See how good I am at distracting myself from the frustration at hand?

Some of my best friends are very funny. In fact, I have a hard time relating to anyone that doesn't find life funny. I mean, really, what is life but a comedy of errors? If I see the pathos in the product, and you can't appreciate it? We probably aren't going to stay friends. I don't mean that you have to laugh at my jokes all the time, because, face it, I'm not that funny. But if you don't see at least a bit of humor in the Situation we call life (as opposed to the guy in New Jersey) then you pretty much cannot relate to me, and to most of the people I know. Also, if you laugh with me, I am more apt to buy you drinks. Ask my friends if you don't believe me.

Sometimes humor covers up anger. And of course, anger is always a secondary emotion. Because underneath, just like the layers of an onion, is more: hurt is often what lies beneath for me. It hurts to raise children with autism. No, really, it does. I am not being flippant. It sucks, much of the time. And though I don't get mad at my children, I am often mad at God. Because, face it, through his Infinite Jesting, he has placed me as the mother of these children. I mean, he has to be laughing, right? How else do you explain:

• I like quiet. I crave quiet. Screaming, though I do it sometimes, really upsets me…puts me on high alert. Enough of it puts me on edge and makes me snippy. Especially if there is nothing I can do about it. JBean is the Child of Sound and Thunder. LOUD is her middle name. Try to tell her to lower her volume? Her brow furrows and a storm passes across her face and I get, "NO NO NO NO I AM NOT YELLING MAMA! YOU are YELLING! I'M TRYING, MAMA! I'M TRYING! [yes I know, you are very trying] That last bit? I don't say out loud. I just think it. Real hard. "I AM NOT YELLING! YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME! STOP TALKING OVER ME STOP TALKING OVER ME…" ad nauseum.


• I enjoy my own company, and am happiest sitting by myself, reading or writing or even watching tv. I have a youngest child who must sit thisclose to me every single second of every day. There are reprieves, but they are few and far between. She cannot do school work on her own, she needs me to walk her through it. Getting dressed is often too hard for her, there are too many choices. And she cannot leave me alone long enough to let me write this post. It is beyond annoying.


• I don't like to be touched. I, of course, don't live in a bubble, so therefore I prep myself to deal with the inevitable hugs, squeezes, touches and lap-sittings that come with having a sensory-seeking kid. I am not touch-avoidant, as much as begin to feel overwhelmed by the onslaught of her screaming fits and want to retreat for safety. Of course, right after a blow up is when she needs to be held. That is absolutely the worst time for me.

Expectations are everything. I expected, when I had children, to have a child I could dress up and take out. I expected she would enjoy going places and chatter excitedly about it. And I have that. But I also have a child who has to do her homework in a certain order. She needs to have her socks on *just right.* Dressing in the morning is like attending a meeting at Camp David… it has to look good, feel good and be neither too hot or too cold; it cannot be too short or too tight. And it has to reflect the way she is feeling. We have tried the week-long organizers, but she didn't want to wear what she sets aside at the time. Insisting caused such a shit storm that it just wasn't worth it. The crayons need to be sharp enough. Make sure to give her plenty of notice if you want to walk out the door to get somewhere on time. Chances are, if you don't, she will come unglued, and then you aren't going anywhere.

So, to combat all of this? I laugh. A lot. And make others laugh, too. I see the humor in the unfunny. Honestly, there are few things I cannot find the humor in. Death? Check. Dismemberment? Check. Autism? Anger? Augh? Check. Check. Check. It is absolutely a matter of survival.

They say, "Laugh, and the world laughs with you." And here you are.
"Cry and you cry alone." And that's why I choose humor.

T, who is laughing, right now, on the inside

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It's not a matter of more time, or better skills, it's a matter of quiet

I can't write. Part of the problem is that it's Monday. But it's also just...life. Every time I sit down to put my thoughts on paper, some crisis hits and I have to break out the proverbial fire hose or do recon. I have so much to say, but I cannot get my thoughts in order. Chaos reigns supreme in my house. As I write this, my youngest child is sitting here alternating between, "I don't care what you say!" over and over again, and "EVIL!" and just screaming. There is only so much that you can listen to this before you start to tune it out. And don't tell me to try to make it better, nothing does. It is Monday, after a particularly busy weekend, and this is par for the course. Albeit, a little louder than usual. Such is autism in my house.

As I write this, my son is in his room egging his sister's behavior on, and trying to see how far he can push me. He is supposed to be writing an essay, but unless I stand on his neck, figuratively speaking, that's not going to happen today. He just slithered past behind the couch thinking I didn't know he was there. Now, he is making faces at his sister. Again, he thinks I don't know. I am about ready to pounce on him so we can work on his double-digit multiplication, so he is trying to maintain a low profile.

I had to resume this post after I dealt with JBean. She was out of control. Hitting me and throwing Legos, not enough to hurt, but enough to be really annoying. I finally picked her up and deposited her in her bed, with her screaming, "You're hurting me! I really wasn't she was just overly sensitive. I tucked her into bed, with her weighted blanket, including her arms. Think: swaddling a baby to calm them. I sat next to her with my legs over her, not my weight, just my legs. She was screaming, but I know her well enough to know what calms her.

After a bit, she was quiet, and I could see the comprehension shine in her eyes once again. I picked up the closest stuffed animal, which happened to be a multi-colored patchwork elephant, and told her to hold him. Then I asked her what color she was feeling. She pointed to red. "So you are angry?" She nodded her head. I told her it was good that she could tell me how she was feeling. Then I pointed to white. "This is peace. It's a good feeling, and if you add it to the red, you can end up with pink. Do you think you could be pink?" She nodded, her eyes wide. "I could try, " she said.

Then she pointed at purple. "What's that, " I asked. "it's 'I'm Sorry," she said.

And she was.

Crisis averted, peace restored. At least until lunchtime, anyway.

But this? Is why I can't write.

T, who keeps trying

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