And this is why I freakin' love blogging, the Bloggysphere and all that goes with it. I believe in true love, I admit it. Sometimes it is a bit worse for wear, but it is always enduring. Going on twenty years with my tech support, this year. But he didn't do it this way. I kind of asked him. Yep, after I swore I wouldn't get married. He wouldn't push,see? He knew I didn't want to get married, he respected that. We laughed it off when I asked and I felt like a complete idiot and just played it off.
He came back later that night and got down on one knee in the bathroom and I told him he was being stupid and to just get up off the floor. Then I hit kissed him. Couple of romantics, us. But it's a strong relationship if you can propose in the bathroom and be together 20 years and 3 kids later.
So apparently, this is not the first time, that distinction goes todooce (doesn't everything?!) where her husband proposed in her comments. I guess. That's what he says. And pioneer woman fits in there, somewhere... but the first proposal with an entire blog goes to mommypie and The Boy. Visit and make sure to read the comments. All brought to you by Marci. She wants you to be a part of this, so make sure you head over to her blog, sign the Mister Linky and put your own spin on the love story, along with your marriage proposal story, too.
warning, this post mentions "breasts" without mentioning centerfolds, beer, strip clubs or any of the other items often marketed using womens' anatomy...proceed at your own risk
I am absolutely up in arms with the article I read this morning at The Atlantic. I consider myself an intelligent, well-educated woman. I am a feminist, and a card-carrying member of NOW. I also have three children, all of whom were breastfed until they were toddlers. It in no way diminished me as a woman. Breastfeeding is a feminist act.
My biggest beef with the article by author Hanna Rosin is the assumption that because a woman chooses to stay home and breastfeed, she is somehow downtrodden and repressed.
From the article:
In Betty Friedan’s day, feminists felt shackled to domesticity by the unreasonably high bar for housework, the endless dusting and shopping and pushing the Hoover around—a vacuum cleaner being the obligatory prop for the “happy housewife heroine,” as Friedan sardonically called her. When I looked at the picture on the cover of Sears’s Breastfeeding Book—a lady lying down, gently smiling at her baby and still in her robe, although the sun is well up—the scales fell from my eyes: it was not the vacuum that was keeping me and my 21st-century sisters down, but another sucking sound.
Breastfeeding is not a plot by an evil patriarchy to keep women subservient and out of the work force! How ludicrous! The resurgence of breastfeeding began., when La Leche League was founded, by women. It resulted in a way to de-medicalize birth and allow women to take their bodies back. Most of us are too young to recall "twilight sleep" when a woman gave birth half-conscious, strapped to a gurney attended by apathetic nurses. The baby was whisked away, fed formula and slept down the hall in the hospital nursery. It was a real practice, and it stripped women of their dignity.
The move to natural childbirth and breastfeeding allowed a woman to be in charge of herself and her baby. She didn't need to rely on doctors (chiefly male) to tell her to buy a pharmaceutical concoction in order to nourish her baby. She could choose to feed her baby on her own, just as biology lead her to do. Other women could come alongside her and provide support and nurturing. And so it is today.
By fulfilling this "circle of life" a woman can become more confident as a mother and a person. She, in a sense, finds her own power, within herself, not dependent upon any outside influence.With her "tribe" by her side, she finds what it is to mother. By putting the baby back in the mother's arms, mother and baby discover one another. The dyad of mother and baby are complete at the moment of breastfeeding.
The author goes on to state why she resented breastfeeding her third child:
This time around, nirvana did not describe my state of mind; I was launching a new Web site and I had two other children to care for, and a husband I would occasionally like to talk to. Being stuck at home breast-feeding as he walked out the door for work just made me unreasonably furious, at him and everyone else.
It would seem she felt tied down and hoped that refusing to breastfeed would alleviate that feeling. The feeling is valid. Motherhood is a huge transition, and some have said the transition of two children to three is particularly difficult. It may be easy to second-guess the decision. This can result in mothers who push their babies away or want them to become independent at all costs. In this view, motherhood suffocates, and once the child grows to school age, life will begin again. Mother will resume her career and all will be right with the world, and her identity.
But perhaps she is painting with too broad a brush. Not all of us feel trapped by motherhood. Certainly, I could choose to work, I have that freedom. But I also have the freedom to stay at home with my children. I am not insecure in either of these decisions. I do not need to define myself completely by my career, nor by my children. I am still the person I was before I had children. And I am also profoundly different.
I chose to have children in order to spend time with them. They are not a fashion accessory, nor are they an inconvenience (most of the time). As such, I chose to breastfeed. I wasn't concerned with how much time it would take. Even in the beginning, I understood that life is transitory, the only constant we have is change, and that by choosing, for a season, to meet my infant's needs 100%,it did not negate my feminism, it fulfilled it. I was doing something for my baby that no one else could. It was my breasts, my food, my power that was growing this little being outside of my body.
My children are past baby stage now, and I am infinitely grateful that I took the time to breastfeed them and meet their needs without regard to how much time I was wasting. Time spent with children is never wasted time. I have a wise friend who says, "Pay now, or pay later." Meaning: invest the time with the kids now, and you will have less chance of the child acting out or feeling neglected. After all, don't women have children to spend time with them?
The author goes on to state:
The debate about breast-feeding takes place without any reference to its actual context in women’s lives. Breast-feeding exclusively is not like taking a prenatal vitamin. It is a serious time commitment that pretty much guarantees that you will not work in any meaningful way. Let’s say a baby feeds seven times a day and then a couple more times at night. That’s nine times for about a half hour each, which adds up to more than half of a working day, every day, for at least six months. This is why, when people say that breast-feeding is “free,” I want to hit them with a two-by-four. It’s only free if a woman’s time is worth nothing.
Excuse me? What does this mean, I cannot work in any "meaningful way?" Whose definition are we using? She has made this an either/or proposition, and it doesn't have to be. I resent the idea that I can not make a contribution in terms of work because I breastfed. She is misguided. Sure, I will choose not to go to work for twelve hours as a high-powered executive, but I could pump while working.
However, while breastfeeding, I worked from home, and volunteered with organizations to empower women in my community. Maybe the definition of work needs to be expanded. And remember, even a baby breastfeeds for two years, (or less) the child grows up quickly, and mother begins to add activities into her life. Life isn't over because a woman pushes out a baby!
I am not faulting a woman for making a different choice than I do. (I might have ten years ago, but I have mellowed) I am simply flummoxed with the idiotic statement that breastfeeding represses a woman. To this I say: the woman is repressing herself. It has nothing to do with her breasts, it is about her brain. And choosing whether or not to breastfeed is the least of her problems! Until she comes to terms with her ambivalence regarding motherhood, what it means to her, and where she fits within it, until she figures out how she defines herself and her child, she will continue to feel repressed.
This isn't about breastfeeding, it is about everything else. So your friends judge you. Get new friends! You are upset because your husband can't feed the baby. There are tons of activities that he can take part in...take baby for a walk, rock and hold the baby, and how about loading the dishwasher?
Bottom line, breastfeed. Or don't breastfeed. I don't really care. Just own it and stop trying to justify it. Call it what it is: your own selfishness. Yes I will still be your friend: it doesn't define my social set. I don't have to agree with every decision made in order to offer my friendship.
I truly have sympathy for the author. With her carping and her finger-pointing, she is never going to be content. She is making motherhood harder than it ever has to be.
T, who realizes this article appears to be link bait, but had to weigh in anyway
Bomb disposal teams were called in and a nearby pub evacuated after water company engineers mistook a Monty Python film prop for a hand grenade. After nearly an hour of examination by bomb experts,they deemed it was safe. After close examination, they declared that the grenade was actually a copy of the "Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch" used in the film Monty Python And The Holy Grail. A police spokeswoman confirmed that the device was a toy and that it had been no danger to the public.
I can't make this crap up, you guys. Life imitating..a Monty Python sketch:
ARTHUR: Yes, of course! The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch! 'Tis one of the sacred relics Brother Maynard carries with him! Brother Maynard! Bring up the Holy Hand Grenade!
MONKS: [chanting] Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem. Pie Iesu domine, dona eis requiem.
ARTHUR: How does it, um-- how does it work?
LANCELOT: I know not, my liege.
ARTHUR: Consult the Book of Armaments!
BROTHER MAYNARD: Armaments, Chapter Two, verses Nine to Twenty-one.
SECOND BROTHER: And Saint Attila raised the hand grenade up on high, saying,'O Lord, bless this thy hand grenade that with it thou mayest blow thine enemies to tiny bits, in thy mercy.' And the Lord did grin, and the people did feast upon the lambs and sloths and carp and anchovies and orangutans and breakfast cereals and fruit bats and large chu--
MAYNARD: Skip a bit, Brother.
SECOND BROTHER: And the Lord spake, saying, 'First shalt thou take out the Holy Pin. Then, shalt thou count to three, no more, no less. Three shalt be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three. Four shalt thou not count, nor either count thou two, excepting that thou then proceed to three. Five is right out. Once the number three, being the third number, be reached, then lobbest thou thy Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch towards thy foe, who, being naughty in my sight, shall snuff it.'
MAYNARD: Amen.
I have been after my son to get his hair cut, but he wasn't having it. Whether it was personal preference, autism and hating change, he just was not agreeing. Until yesterday, when he said he needed a haircut:
"I want a mullet!"
Me: "A WHAT? I don't think so!"
him: "pleeeease? I want a mullet!"
Now, I remember the mullet, from back in the 80's, and John Stamos and Rick Springfield were hella hot...(oh admit it, you wanted to be part of Blackie's full house on GH,and didn't you wish you were Rick's Jesse's Girl??) huh. Guess that was just me...at least when I was 17. But that was then,and this is now, and my son isn't a wedding singer, and doesn't have an 80's cover band. And really, is he just asking to get his ass kicked?? Of course I didn't agree to the mullet, even though I polled twitter and some masochists told me to let him get one. But...hair is about self-expression, so I let him do whatever the heck else he wanted, while I sat biting my nails nervously. I was quite surprised. Here is the before and after
this is before, I think he's under there, somewhere
this is after, look, you can see, he has eyes!
It's a bit short, but it will grow. And anything is an improvement over what it was!
Don't get me wrong, I am not that far gone. There is no way this Mama Bear would stand by while someone played Goldilocks in my bed, and I'm sure most others would feel the same. If I was sitting at my computer when the person walked in, yeah, I would probably tweet it. But then I would be screaming, calling the police, and locking myself in the nearest room, in that order.
I think however, I get how this kind of thing happened. In this age of social media, with everything so connected, it can feel like living in a fishbowl. I have found the humor in every day situations, In times past, some would have said it was material for their novel. These days, we are standup comedians, and... it's all comedy material. :tap tap:: is this thing on? Some have said those who are involved in social media are self-absorbed. On the contrary, we are usually outgoing, (at least online) and want to share our lives with others. We see the value in people. It isn't that those involved are narcissistic, as we have been accused. We simply want to share in the experiment that is the Internet. If someone spends a great deal of time on the phone, he is not branded a narcissist, he is seen as socially agreeable.
So then, why is someone who spends time networking with friends considered less than that? I have many friends online. Some I have met and some I may never meet. Yes, there are degrees to those friendships. Some are lifelong, some are buddies, some are mere acquaintances. But they all matter to me. I have helped many with autism information, and I remember details about people because I genuinely care about what happens to them. And if they drop me a line and need my help, and it is within my power to do so, I will provide it. That's the beauty of social media.
Years ago,it was all about BBS systems. Later it was forums and email loops.Not to mention chat rooms, where people connected in real time. This is just an offshoot of those, as the Internet evolves. Today, it is possible to connect to more people than ever before. It is not narcissistic to be involved with others. On the contrary, it's what makes you human.
"It has WHAT?" I recoiled in horror. My son had just said the Irish steel-cut oats that my daughter made for breakfast, the ones we all love, made in honor of St. Patrick's Day- had bugs in it. "You're crazy, kiddo, I checked it myself."
"No, mama they're really small, you can barely see them." I told him to bring me the container, and I put it close to my eye, squinting carefully. Sure enough, tiny little crawly bugs, almost invisible to the eye were crawling around inside the container. On the oats. That she had just cooked. I felt my bile rise. Apparently we added a little extra protein to our breakfast this morning. That's when my littlest daughter started screaming. I understood, but this was over the top. You have to love autism.
You need to understand, JBean at seven, is pretty much bug-phobic. She doesn't like any of them, no matter how cute or interesting they might be. As you can imagine, this makes going outside a challenge. She just found out that the oatmeal she had eaten, and my leftovers that she had scarfed had contained hideous bugs the thing she hates most in life. She was on the verge of a panic attack.
Meanwhile, my eldest daughter, who had cooked the oats, was ashen. She had tears running down her face, and her mouth was frozen into a mask of horror. Surely, this could not be happening.
And my son, JBear, the fruit of my loins, the one who has no idea when to stop talking, continued to tell us all how we had eaten bugs, and they were there, in the container, and could you believe it? Trying to shut him up and deal with the now-death-grip on my arm from my youngest and console my oldest who of course, was blaming herself, because you know if anything goes wrong when she is doing something it is automatically her fault. Just ask her. And I was trying to control my roiling stomach. Amidst the screams of them all. Why is it when all hell breaks loose, I feel the insane urge to laugh? I guess I see the comedy in the situation...
My youngest decided then she needed to go to the bathroom. But, since she was absolutely freaked out about the possibility of bugs, she decided she wasn't going into the bathroom, because what if there were bugs in there? She declared she was just going to wet her pants, she didn't care. (niiiice, don't you want MY life? Sometimes, neither do I).
JBear, who was trying to help said, "If you pee your pants it will attract bugs!" Alrighty, then. Thanks for that kid. The screaming intensified:
"I have to go to the bathroom! No, I am going to pee my pants! I won't go! Ah, I will bring bugs if I peeeeee..." Completely out of control. I cupped her face with my hands, something she doesn't like, but that brings her back into focus and told her to listen to the sound of my voice. She needed to calm down. "We are going to do birthday candles to help you calm down, now." I told her. And I lead her through some deep breathing to slow her heart and her fears. It worked, and she did go to the bathroom. But then she was worried that maybe she peed just a little in her undies, and that it would attract bugs! I explained that doesn't happen, she was fine, and she could just go change her underwear if she was worried. So she did. With some cajoling and I walked her through it.
No sooner did she get done, my son started again about the bugs in the oatmeal. He hadn't eaten any of it (he is gluten-free) and so lacking empathy with autism, was fascinated by our predicament. He just wouldn't stop talking! How festive! Once I got him quiet, I convinced the girls that the bugs got in after we opened the container and we didn't eat anything except oats. Turned out when my son said, "bug" my littlest daughter heard, "Bug" and here that's code for the C Word, because I am terrified of them. (other bugs are fine, but the big black/brown ones send me to the moon. I suppose in a way it is funny. Unless you are me.) So the kids know not to say that word, that rhymes with the second word in "stagecoach." That kind of bug is what my JBean thought was in the can of oats...no wonder she freaked out at the possibility of eating it! Ugh. I explained that the bugs we were talking about were too small to see, and that they are called weevils. (not that it helped me, but she started to calm down.)
So of course, I had to tweet our gross discovery, because well, duh. And someone tweeted back not to share the recipe with her for something, in spanish. I didn't recognize the word. I clicked the link, not really thinking. LIttle daughter was sitting right there, next to the computer. The link was a picture of a frying pan full of grasshoppers. Nice crunchy ones, with garlic and chiles. And yes, it looked like a pan full of bugs. Crap. I blew that one. The hysterics started again. It took a half-hour to calm her down, but I finally distracted her with a book. (later my twitter friend apologized, but it really was not her fault, at all. Also, I found it interesting that in Mexico they eat grasshoppers. Don't the legs get stuck in your teeth??) Yes, I know in many countries they eat insects, but culturally, I can't get past my bias...
Anyway...it made such great blog fodder, so I owe her.
Once everyone is settled down, we spoke no more of it. But I would imagine it will be a long time before any of us eat oatmeal again. And you better believe I will be using a magnifying glass to check grains from now on!
As you know, today is St. Patrick's Day. Many celebrate it by wearing green or affecting an Irish accent. But what is the origin of St. Patrick's Day, and why do we celebrate?
Believe it or not, St. Patrick's Day as we know it, is an American holiday. It was first celebrated as a solidifer between recently-emigrated Irish Roman Catholics. Back in Ireland, the population was feeling the effects of the Potato Famine In America, there were so many new Irish immigrants, other groups began to feel displaced. Discrimination and violence was common, as the backlash against the Irish continued. The first parade in honor of St. Patrick took place to bring the Irish-Americans together, to celebrate their heritage and their numbers.
Today, most Americans have forgotten the purpose of the holiday, choosing to use it as an excuse to drink as much green beer as possible or pinch those who forgot their green. But now you know why.
What would you like?
Cad ba mhaith leat? (cod buh woh latt?) I am thirsty.
Ta athas tart orm (taw aw-iss tart orr-im) I would prefer beer/whiskey
B'fhearr liom beoir, uisce beatha (byarr lum byorr, isk-ihh bah-ha) I am very drunk
Ta me are meisce (taw/may/air/mesh-keh) My clothes are wet
Ta mo eadie fliuch (taw muh ea-dee flee-uck) I am unwell (sick)
Ta me tinn (taw may tin) Happy Saint Patrick's Day! Beannachtai na Feile Padraig Ireland Forever!
Erin go braugh! (erin go bra)
My hovercraft is full of eels. (because you never know when you will need it) Ta m'arthach foluaineach lan d'eascainn
Now you have all the Gaelic you need, so lift a Guinness to your health, and may ye be in Heaven an hour before the devil knows you're dead!
Warning, this post is about girly stuff, and time of the month and flow and bad skin, so be warned. If you are squeamish, come back tomorrow. Just know this is part of a being a woman, and sometimes you just have to talk about it. Because our mothers didn't talk about it, and now, we have to find all of our information on Google! More autism posts to come, but today we are discussing getting older and how much it sucks.
I didn't start my period until I was 15 and a half. I was the last of my friends and I used to read Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume and just lament the fact that that special thing that makes me a woman hadn't happened to me yet. When it finally did, I was so excited, I just about told my father! (but I didn't tell him because, come on, my dad??) Also, he would have been absolutely mortified. He was a bit reserved, a firm gruff Army guy. Don't show weakness, never let them see you sweat. When I kissed him goodnight, it was on the forehead. So, yeah, telling Daddy all about my period? Not such a hot idea.
Ok, so like I said, I was 15 when I started, and I started with a vengeance. For years, I have had very heavy bleeding, 7 days, we are talking the Superwoman plugs. Right. I used to get cramps so bad in high school that I popped Advil like candy. Very hideous. Sometimes, I would even stay home, but I didn't get to do that very often. My mother was more the slave driver "If you aren't dead you can make it to school" type. So I suffered for womanhood every 28 days, like clockwork, spent 7 days sloughing off the dead lining of my uterus and called it part of Being a Woman. I got used to it.
After my 3rd child, I started slowing down a bit. It was nice. Now, no longer did a period last an entire week, I was down to 5 days. And a bit lighter flow, which was also a welcome change. Getting older has some perks, I suppose. But with age, comes your child growing as well. Which is all well and good, unless they are female and teenage, then they start the whole process as well.
I pride myself upon being a strong woman. When I was in an office environment, I was usually the strong hormone leader, and women would line up behind my cycle. (Did you know this happens? When many women work closely together their cycles will coincide, with one woman being the evolutionary hormonal leader.) I was the driver, and of course, right? And then SHE showed up on the scene. My daughter.
In the last year, she has played havoc with my cycles, and it is killing me. This last time, I was done. Done, I tell you! And just a few days later, I started my cycle all over again. And it is because she was PMSing and now is the young, fertile (ack I don't like using that word in the context of my daughter!) strong hormone woman. And I? I am a crone.
I am only 42. (and I am staying that age, after all, it is the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything...so only anniversaries from now on..the 1st Anniversary of my 42nd year and so on). I have noticed in the last few months that I have moles and brown spots I didn't have before. My wonderful smooth skin isn't so smooth anymore. Even on my eyelids, I have little bumps that make putting on eye makeup a pain in the butt. Don't get me wrong, YOU can't see these things. They aren't that noticeable. But I can tell, and it is bugging me! I now have a bump on the side of my nose that wasn't there a year ago. I see little laugh lines (bull, they are wrinkles you can't fool me) around my eyes. I look tired. In short, I look kind of like my mom!
This is not okay with me! My mom is old! And I am young! Vibrant! Energetic! I feel like those hot young 24 year olds! Except...
About six months ago, I wasn't feeling very well. I was running an errand and had a cold. I stopped in at Starbucks to pick up a chai tea latte, one of my favorite pick-me-ups when I am feeling under the weather, and noticed a schlumpy woman in Jamba Juice as I walked by. She was about my age, but was wearing a green velour sweatsuit. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she didn't look well. My thought was, "Wow, that woman is really letting herself go." And then I realized, I was looking at my own reflection! Yeah.
I think I have some sort of Body Morph Disorder. Many women look in the mirror and are appalled by what they see. I look in the mirror and see someone hotter than she really is. That day in front of Jamba Juice was a rude awakening. I am no longer young and hot. (if I ever was) I am growing old. Now I suppose I could just lie down and die, or grow old gracefully but I refuse to do that, I am too stubborn. Instead, I will just continue to be hot, thank you very much. Even if that hotness is just in my own mind. Sex (ack! She said THAT word) is pretty great at 40+... and youth truly is wasted on the young. If I could take my knowledge at 42 back to when I was 22, I would be unstoppable. But, since I can't do that, I have to settle for my new title, a badge of honor, and let the silly 20 year olds be young and insecure.They don't want to play with me anymore...to them, I am old. That's hard to accept. I am secure in my age, now I just have to become secure in my image.
T, who asks who that middle-aged woman is in the mirror
This weekend I attended my first tweetup (that's where you get together with the people who live in your area who hang out on twitter). It was at The Jazz Kitchen at Downtown Disney. I wasn't sure what to expect, and arrived a bit late to find the first table full and it sort of felt like when you were in high school and walked in to find all the cool kids sitting at the table with no room left for you. (no, that's never happened to me either). So I took a deep breath and sat at the next table, praying others would show up. I brought J with me, so at least I wasn't sitting alone. I shouldn't have worried, very shortly, both tables were full. I had a very nice time and met some great people.
from left:@godotchris(can't see)@brd78,@melaclaro,@crispydragon,@SWgeek,@fstop23, @cloud79,@ladyblackwood,@mr_o,@kameelyan,@kirstenwright,@mannyaragon,@annwillmott
same, except @colorsign on right
from left:@ladyblackwood, @mr_o; on right:@fstop23
from left:@ksablan,@ocmarisa,@danasipper,@sipperphoto;
Right:phraklet (next to @phraktyl, who you can't see)@ro, @cheapcheapcheap
@markdavidson,@DrYueh,(not sure),@thevixy
not pictured:@californiagirlj
If I misssed anyone, let me know, I will edit so I get it right. It was fun, and can't wait for the next one!
T, who was going to link all those names, but it is so late now I need to go to bed
Today is Friday the 13th, but then you knew that. I am not particularly superstitious, but I got some bad news from a friend I really care about, and it just seems to fit the day. I am also kind of ticked off at God over it. This friend has had enough adversity lately! I can't divulge because it isn't my news to tell, but it has me really upset. Also, I would imagine she feels eaten by zombies right about now..
Seems like a good day for a rerun of my Zombies post....
...Warning, we interrupt this regularly scheduled post to bring you important news about the coming crisis:
There have been some great comments lately on Send Chocolate, and since I really believe in the community of blogging, I wanted to be able to expand upon the discussion. So I added Comment Luv to the comments. This allows you to showcase your next post, which I think is pretty cool. So, please, take advantage of it. The only negative, if you could call it that is that now Blogger members won't have their pretty little icons showing. But, you can participate however you choose:
Guest, w/ name and no registration
Guest, include name and info, without registering
Register w/ Comment Luv which takes 5 minutes, I swear, that's all. Then you can put your picture and all sorts of stuff in.
I even enabled video comments, so let's see how that goes.
I can even allow integration with Facebook, but I am still thinking on that one.
I did this so that we can enjoy the conversation, so don't let me down! Comment. Also, this way I can get you more information if you need it.
Tonight I was reading one of my favorite blogs (you can find it in my blogroll down right), Attack of the Redneck Mommy. Her post was lamenting the fact that people can be so rude when it comes to how they handle kids with special needs. Her frustration is that her son comes across as different and people don't know how to act around him. They say insensitive things. They gawk, and they generally make asses of themselves. It can be hard to explain to her older children. Especially when people are trying to be funny. I couldn't shake her post, and it started my wheels turning.
My oldest daughter is 14. One of the favorite expressions among her peers is "That's so retarded!" She has tried to explain to them why it's not acceptable, but it falls on deaf ears. Her friends don't see anything wrong with it. When I hear it, I also say something. I die a little every time I hear it. The first time my son used it, I almost had a stroke. It's not okay. The definition of retarded is an a IQ of less than 70. My children are not retarded. My kids have at least an average, possibly higher than average IQ. But my kids have autism. And I understand the lurch of a mother's heart when she opens her email to find pictures that are masquerading as humor staring at her, poised to wound her.
It's the heart I had when I saw Napoleon Dynamite. (I include a clip in case you live under a rock and never saw this awful movie). I have no idea if the title character was supposed to have had autism. I just know I squirmed uncomfortably while watching. I didn't see the humor in watching those poor socially-inept boys as we were supposed to laugh at them. It felt way too close to home. My mother's heart was breaking, and I wanted to kick somebody's butt, hard. I understand empathy while watching movies that deal with teen situations. Sure, we were all awkward at times back then, some more than others. Even the cheerleaders had bad hair days. But I drew the line at watching a film that made fun of kids who seemed oblivious to their social standing and how badly they stuck out. What could possibly make this funny? Watching how clueless they were? Glad it wasn't you? It felt cruel to sit and laugh at their behavior. Why?
Because you just can't tell by looking at someone what their normal is.
When I take my kids out, they look normal. No, really, they do. They are pretty cute, two wear braces, one is too young, but, sadly, due to her lousy gene pool and my recessed jawline (autism AND braces?) she will eventually need them, too.
Remember, I live in the land of the Beautiful People and have, upon more than one occasion, had a talent scout walk up to my family on the way through Nordstrom and invite us to an agent meeting. I am always told how adorable and well-mannered they are... and have I ever considered getting them into acting? And I think "Yeah, sure, they are well-mannered now, but wait until the 7 year old wants a drink of water, or the lights are too bright or she is just ready to go HOME. Wait until the 10 year old gets fixated on the latest whatjamacallit that he absolutely HAS to have, and can he borrow $10 (which I never loan him, but hope springs eternal.) Just wait until my 14 yr old is trying to find shoes and can't find one single, solitary pair that looks or feels right in the entire three-story mall. Wait for the meltdowns. They are coming." Or not...
Because they look just like every other fresh-scrubbed talent hopeful, the reactions when my children fall apart are always the same: surprise. Embarrassed glances, a titter here or there. Because, when the dam breaks, our cup runneth over. And the judgment is always the same, I can see it in their eyes. (And no, I am not particularly sensitive to it, but I do a bit of mind-reading, so I can tell) It MUST be the parenting!" That's right, if I would only discipline my brood, that would stop it. I can almost hear the thoughts in my head:
I mean really! How can she possibly let him go on and on about that video game? Asking over and over again? Doesn't she enforce limits? Doesn't no, mean no? It is her fault he is like that, what an absolutely disagreeable little boy, haranguing his mama like that!
What is WRONG with that little girl, she won't stop whining! She looks old enough to be patient, what is that mother teaching? And it's shameful the way that father is carrying her, rather than making her walk on her own instead of collapsing in a heap on the floor! Why, in my day...
It all comes from giving children too much power and too many choices!
(Someone actually did say that to me!)
Understand, we are often on the way out when this kind of thing starts, but it's still the same thing. Why can't you control your child?
I suppose at that point, I have a choice. I can explain to the kind strangers who really just want the best for my children that there is autism present in our family, and thank you very much for your understanding and consideration, I am dealing with it. Then I can also explain, when faced with their blank looks, that there are different levels of autism and no my children don't check out mentally or stack blocks in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, they just respond to situations with less control than most kids sometimes.
I could say that.
Or I could mentally tell them to piss off and walk away with as much pride and aplomb as I can muster.
Guess which I do more often?
T, who is tired of explaining and just not going to do it anymore
I don't usually post more than once a day, but my friend califmom found this and I HAD to share it with you. What having Asperger's is like, from the kids themselves who have it. AMAZING video.
The embedding is iffy, so if you can't see this, PLEASE go watch it here:
What Asperger's Is Like
There's a new post up over at Sweet Schooling, about getting your child to write: how to help, along with some good resources. Check it out. Don't worry, we'll wait! AHem. Ok, on with today's post...
You've heard the textbook definition of Asperger's, "A pervasive developmental disorder ...distinguished by a pattern of symptoms rather than a single symptom. It is characterized by impairment in social interaction, by stereotyped and restricted patterns of behavior, activities and interests, and by no clinically significant delay in cognitive development or general delay in language. Intense preoccupation with a narrow subject, one-sided verbosity, restricted prosody, and physical clumsiness are typical of the condition."
but I want to tell you what it means in our life.
It means a lack of self-regulation. for my 7 year old. Going from 0-60 in intensity in about five seconds. Not being able to police herself and her reactions. Hit and/or scream first, ask questions afterwards. It means 24/7 monitoring her choices and constantly teaching her better ones. This includes teaching her to know her bodily reactions, her adrenaline levels, her anxiety.. (Incredible 5 Point Scale, How Does Your Engine Run?)
It's not being able to be patient, at all. Needing something right now. Think: toddler parenting. If the need or want is important enough to verbalize than it must be taken care of RIGHT NOW. Or else.
It's speaking in a sing-song voice, breathy, with no support from the diaphragm. Sounds very toddler.
Needing routines to go "just so" and when they fluctuate, noticing and struggling. Sunday, we didn't go to church. After church, daughter gets a donut. No church, no donut. She wanted me to drive to the donut store yesterday and get donuts. This caused no end of struggle.
Lack of spontaneous activity. She must have some sort of notice before I just spring things upon her. I always wanted to be the "fun mom" and do spur of the moment things. When my eldest was younger, I used to take her on "Pajama Runs" which was a surprise trip after lights out to dessert, in her pajamas. The youngest would never do well with that kind of diversion.
For my 10 yr old....It's asking a hundred times a day if he can play _____________ or go _______________ or buy _________. It varies, depending upon his current obsession. It can be an activity, a subject matter or a food. No matter what, it is freakin' annoying! He is like a train that is barreling down the tracks, one-minded, a machine. The only way to head it off is to switch tracks completely. As he gets older, this isn't as easy as you might think.
For my 14 yr old, it's being a perfectionist to the point of making herself sick over assignments. She doesn't pick up shades of gray, and it all must be one way, that's the only way it can be seen. There is little wiggle room in her opinion. Some would call this rigid. In fairness, as she gets older, she is becoming a little less...structured in her thinking. It still is on a daily basis. One of her favorite characters is Sheldon, on Big Bang Theory. Coincidence?
It's not only something my children must do. Navigating these waters, these sink-or-swim rapids is often my own journey. And if I am sick, or just not feeling like dealing with red is blue and green is the new black thinking?
Well, it's crazy-making.
I wish that I could say it's always fun, or enlightening. I wish I could say I was a great mom 100% of the time. But the truth is, half the time (and more some would debate) I am just blindly doing what feels right. And, on nights like tonight, when I have been fighting the after-effects of the flu, including laryngitis, I am just...
Now that it has become clear that I am not dying, I must endeavor to dig us out of a week's worth of mess that comes when Mama Can't Move. (because, apparently, neither can anyone else, at least when it comes to bending over and picking up that THING that just hit the floor). Excuse me, that particular plop was my head, and it was exploding. (Did I mention my house is a wreck?)
Sadly, I am still as weak as a kitten, so I won't be doing much lifting, cleaning or yelling about the former. At least not for a bit. I am winded just going down the hall to the bathroom! So, until I recover, I will do a bit at a time. And occupy myself with other activities. Speaking of...
I took my convalescence as an opportunity to do some housekeeping. Not of the actual house, are you insane? I changed clothes and spiffed the place up. What do you think? More importantly, did you bring chocolate?
For four days now, I am pretty sure I have been dying. No one will tell me, but I know. It started with a high fever and body aches and has mushroomed into this cough that I am pretty sure is consumption. you can't fool me, I saw Moulin Rouge, and I know what she died from...she did a whole lot of coughing beforehand, too! So I am pretty sure that they are just humoring me, in this house. That's why they walk around on tiptoe and bow to my every whim. "Shhh! Yes, get her some orange juice, she won't be this way for long!" I know the way things work.
My youngest already has begun replacing me. When I oozed out of bed to help her into hers, something I have not been capable of doing for days, she started screeching at me:
"No, get away! I don't want you! You're a monster, you're evil! You're an alien! You're an imposter!"
Now I know I didn't look very much like myself, with flaccid, ill-kempt hair and hollow eyes, but I don't think I looked like a pod person! Of course, I am not 7. With autism. So what do I know?
[this is where the picture, the one that shows me in my current state of disarray would go. I chose not to put it there. You are glad. Trust me.]
"Life. slightly dark, cheaper than candy, and half as sweet."
Glad you're here! I'm a freelance writer, specializing in autism, special needs and education. I freelance for numerous national publications. This is where I let it all hang out, sans editor.
send CHOCOLATE and love here:
Interested in REVIEWS?
All PR offers considered, let's talk!
these people think I'm hot
feel free to link back to me
me...working hard
fueled by coffee and chocolate..and the occasional martini
dooce (doesn't everything?!) where her husband proposed in her comments. I guess. That's what he says. And pioneer woman fits in there, somewhere... but the first proposal with an entire blog goes to mommypie and The Boy. Visit and make sure to read the comments. All brought to you by Marci. She wants you to be a part of this, so make sure you head over to her blog, sign the Mister Linky and put your own spin on the love story, along with your marriage proposal story, too.![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_s-rT_lulhyQ43ZTBSFj2paMuva5nenGM0sWhcxcpVBTgLyaNMIXVuGVqvwfpW-K4sC6PKsvCEm6meJFUHgE5jUqEtvm3b4cvSejYNhUmvq8apajlls8nfNDea-pVRUJbPjV9rKaK4Y54DX1wgQ5Bc=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_s8yklIVEwQi5ejznD2Cxx00w7k8nriIx-62cag04_v1KlRZgMVMM9dlMNOjRPUkoLASxPVn--Yfc-iQ5M-kDPSd4zqWcLL8DsuB1--lVcrhTwzqrK-_oQ4kuoo4nkLDozpPV_y8cZGV8ec83VrO1Xp=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_t_UCgvXJuNcfH7AF9fcfX7aGA-8U-vDeUuln2Aob-IXs3fFlhlygtFll9jzP390YqUORaGG0dfr8fmZeNviFvBCEoEwAWGeihowoYJ3L7PqVsb8YJJkERnnK-St7-7_WomVqI3ndGgWtoER8w1xCMC=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vwzYrx_Z9tZEfRRnO92MY6qXG4ZShYHCn30WnVi5WvgfFfTvhc7ONVG0y6Np4UpUxM1g9HJGJ0qdtuG9yOeLDb0tpJuFpBybkR-_Gq3DuwDpbpyiwiFVkVR1brpeyRQZyQk59zOZwjzxAWH5NrFft_=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_swIYU5RhtPW7sDZ8w8DK4EAnID5XGWTPoczNcA_ykeN3BHtXojAl7dk9VD1HnE-xXpB1nTDw-4cSe0EpWnJVS5I7WyY5I-z7yTtxbTKx9eGypJAMSJck0gsNJ34WSeoFx_-GDxJ1qGeLZSxbANaHmQ=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vW9HR0c0guIXNanra63GQ7yG5jwlTZxOIfZ0UYCLgVHZheF2XEY-M5MY5XwZOLNTWz8yscuVPh48qsShn552qyBc6VP_nMDBy2HByXlFo4L0xouHMbADJZluTw31Fr74NlIgQdHt6juAUp95F9jqA=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_uHuxu_2myYIHmmeDBKaoncpCaf6R8DjyIt7j6_jL3-9xX64UveNRDkAClE2diVCwmNSVnTunFqQe-T5B_LGFEoqtN5tv1N-MElY3LAZFdZXWRK5YmdOiGvn3Nl4sMso9k1NjcuydNW_yZrleCN2-px=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_tPoKrWEnvQQItqsV31qq5FchTG4pk1CjhdWUk0MtbU4e-e8twXTFKZOZXv9MqvHMwjEvTchSBpmVZG_w1-dJp4xfHi8gJ0bYaQFOw1OjtTtqzKVRfxFG61j00_6xTp5-OqpASWCDn-H7h4lXeoN_Rl=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_uqnUB64SR8uMzZS5ENr9mOwaBzJ0rLjl0PswxnkeV5-ljGrz4ZuFBk1QAM3tCLx6yZveGHxXPWw47IU4XdKf0q8CFAQuTsH_AlnNsUvQDL_CoiELBM2IoVQvQT_tmQDfe9W9vOL0g1i9blu3Yrx6U=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vxwvlLQDW4fNTRjATHePrm5BLUmf2oIgX_4JYXyBj_ACiL5sXlmA5qwWj0Tprj6P0QFRSZkTa8VAFo8WIEb_I5wgLptXO13OqUZWrMcFE2jTKBVSjJ3BObo2aVYzCwN4xqCyxsuRRgwfw8w5CfvHg=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_ucnY0tNhs3y1X2Ss0xq3U2I4MO3ReiFVFAQnZFAhLamdc9mF_Z2sRbMYCwnaBhac6H6w9cEWQPuPiCJojr6FnWn9Sc8das3ImYllnIiGPcK2Bibfo6C3tSpdYQ0pWg8uzOTB9pEgFM9e2QhL1VElle=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_sGzJH3mb9rbM1esHg9EwanZNAKHnHSvvl1koxEmWMM1qUaBOby5J1lwIcNvI-3dAPjsWAZHR-4AL25XEVJMbcZwv_L9SL23f5P2J2nERe8E4hqLMDCCGVVtwYQmx8UazV5ujvne83pImIaJfCETLQs=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_ts5UPIN9gflLOIR3ud9dlFsCGVXVOy1kVGN0lOrhfEfZKCHcBs8-lw4nr-92iFgzUj8vtVNhMFo87ylxZE0f0Dm6wN3kmWZ0pYvKrJNEw0KbvWFVcDyleMQD-A1lfmCnybrgTyDmHCJfhlvLjqntA4=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_tZeO3ciCHW--CCsELrtQ8U5ypMG_rnsnLpov8qOIJkfb5pBDckVGk8F9mosyCCimjnBRtvKfBsHQ4xqEywjQkQeel06i7zT2OVspzwGgi9IxF9RGeEeSg3Iut83eyH_T2xyIcZ4WkoXF7CRmQwRPm1=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_ug2OUcqeRmbuq9rCpblwDlFmDzbm1tEJvRpbY6D1x512t8JH_W556gP-6Q5M09Kcsz-_NW2ABzS7qnzNoVc4kWIl6WUejqMVKE3vISmfO8Zy72pL_EmYiL4-z6-zGJZk2SoAKCOYdSC0mjX1lBEUzO=s0-d)
