Progress Report

Annual review time. At school, Builder has had a great year; academically and socially. It is the first year I haven't talked to the principal on a weekly basis...so I believe it. It is is wild to think of the different boy we see. Luckily the school hasn't seen any of the behaviors we have in our home. Excellent...I guess. Of course, we are thrilled to hear he is doing well. But...what's up with that? Are you kidding me??? He can hold it together there and not here...really? Apparently, this is typical of "these kids" to quote a favored doc of mine. He hears that all the time. Kids are fine at school and at home they are a challenge. OK...so, this explains why other moms say how nice, sweet, and kind our kids are and gently offer advice on how to handle them. Raising my eyebrows and tilting my head, I always just nod and say yeahhh... What I should do is hand out passes to the nightly show that is most likely going to occur that evening at dusk. Apparently, the show must go on if that is what it takes for the release of the enormous pressure these children feel to keep it together for eight hours. As parents, we are ringmasters, tiger tamers, and high wire walkers.

Intensity and Frequency

These little words explain the difference between other kids and my kid. When Builder was five, I would go to Mom parties and try to get some other mom to help me understand why my child acted the way he did. Well, they would just laugh at my latest stories of madness and mayhem; then share one of their own little darling's equally as naughty anecdotes. However, the difference was, they were still smiling and laughing. Not me, I was exhausted, frustrated, and sitting in the aisles of the library for hours trying to figure out this enigma I called son. Yeah, son of a gun?! I just didn't get it. How come they could handle all these situations and monkey business? Well...not until completing some parent quizzes and interviews did I realize there is a professional term for this anarchy. Intensity and Frequency. Yes...every single parent on the planet has amusing "my child drives me crazy!" stories. But only the select few of us with children with special needs have the "NO, really my kid IS driving me crazy." We have the singular insanity of dealing with arguments about most everything, coupled with whatever major mess has been made, topped off with at least one to two tantrums a day. Then, don't forget the incredible difficult food menu and sincere disagreement to most clothing options. Intensity and frequency. Remembering those word just might keep you sane.javascript:void(0)

Stomper or Grower?

I have been called numerous names in the past few weeks by my overly-confident child. None that I can print. He has no sense of how truly awful those words are or how it cuts to the quick for a parent or sibling. He doesn't have empathy. Unless we spell it out for him, he is oblivious. Really, might never get it, how do your parent that? However, in the interim, I am trying to be positive and capitalize on the good...which for me is so super-hard! My friend was over and made the observation she thinks I am (and definitely my husband is) a Grower. Not a Stomper. A Grower encourages kids in their passions and quirks. I argued against my status as a Grower, because inately I think the role of a Mom is to be a bit of a Stomper. You know the roll...clean up your room, put your laundry away, feed the pet, is you homework done? Yet the roll of the Dad is way more free-falling...."Sure you want to blow up those old trees in the back...I think I have just the power tool to do that!" Totally not Stomping. My friend still persisted that I really was a grower. What she doesn't know is how hard it is to grow this child. I am naturally a grower, a teacher. I do crafts, I sew with him, I take him to libraries and places to feed his interests; but he only sees me as a "Interupter" and a "Distractor". The really super-hard aspect of raising an Asperger's kid is that the are truly only focused on themselves. They have limited empathy and limited tolerance for the mundane chores of life.

Tough Guy

The best part of Mother's Day...putting your children to bed; because later you can watch them sleeping and think how sweet they really are. During the day when they are clubbing each other, whining, and talking back...not so much. My Mother's Day really turned out quite perfectly. The children were convinced to help clean up in order to have family friends over for dinner. Husband cleaned out fridge and eradicated all mold growing in that environment. Sweet. You can tell I am not a roses and chocolate kind of gal.
Plus, I got a hand-picked out card and flowers from Builder this morning. He went to the store with Dad while I stayed on the couch with Bounce and watched a riveting Hannah Montana. The card Builder picked out says, "Happy Mother's Day to the best mom in the world from that always hungry, seldom serious, frequently wacky, often rowdy, occasionally tidy, not quite civilized, almost lovable little tough guy who grew up to be me." Designed to be given by an adult, I am not surprised Builder chose it. He thinks he is 25. But it did stop me in my tracks. He gets it. I need to get it too. Someday he will be older; and apparently, there have been many moms before me who also had Builders living in their homes. (Is it fair to say driving them crazy???) And they grew up. Most live in Seattle now, but still, on their own.
Tonight, while tucking them in, I thanked Builder for the card and quoted a few of the adjectives on the card to the boys. I asked Builder his favorite part of the card and he sheepishly said, "the bottom of the card". "You know Mom, tough guy".
He is my tough guy. In so many ways! He thinks he's tough because he can swear like a sailor and defy any request. (And he has mastered that cool guy walk!) I think he's tough; because I need to parent this pipsqueak Sinbad into a respectful, educated, kind person. He is my tough guy.

Ransacked!

Yesterday a man came to the front door selling meat from a minivan. Suspicious? Definitely. Coming from a long line of neighborhood crime fighters...I immediately called the police to report the incident. A young officer arrived and began to gather the details of the event. He told me it was possible they were planning a "rouse robbery". One man occupies the owner at the front door; while the other man slips in unnoticed at another door. Well, we have lots of doors usually unlocked and often wide open. Builder tends not to bother with minor details like closing doors. I was fairly certain the second man didn't enter my house; but the officer felt strongly I needed to make certain nothing valuable was missing. I had already checked the garage because of course that had been open. Which is where the problem starts.
The garage has become another domain for Builder's projects. Pink Styrofoam litters the floor from the latest hovercraft design. Chicken wire on the ground from a crayfish trap built 3 months ago. Tools and nails are piled up on makeshift tables. Plus the bikes, kites, and hockey gear are squished in with all of Builder's project remnants. It was impossible to tell if anything was missing! The golf clubs and bikes were still there so I decided it was fine.
As I returned to the house to check my purse and bedroom. I viewed the house as a burglar would....Yikes! As I well know, my purse is virtually impossible to find. Coupled with the fact my wallet never has cash, it would be a bust. The rest of the rooms are covered with Builder's indoor projects. The latest: plastic Porsche model, duct tape pet carriers, fabric sleeping bags sewn for rats, electrical modifications to three remote control cars that have been disassembled. Every table, couch, and floor is covered with his projects' debris. HE NEVER CLEANS UP AFTER HIMSELF. EVER.
The kitchen has the refrigerator door wide open, bread and cheese, often a stick of butter melting into soup. On this particular morning the boys had taken the drawers out of their dressers and left them all over their room. That means they placed them on unmade beds and a combination clean folded laundry and muddy clothes.
I can count my valuable jewelry on one hand and have hidden it so thoroughly I haven't been able to find it for over a year. If I was a burglar, I would have high-tailed it outta my house so fast. This place has already been thoroughly ransacked!

Overwhelmed

So for whatever reason, this year has been a terrific struggle with Builder. We have made some progress and in other instances we have fallen to the bottom of the well. (See February post.) He is bigger and badder. Not good English; but totally accurate. We have determined, it is pretty much our fault. Nice. Very demeaning as far as self-worth goes and good fodder for husband-wife arguments! Painful. It is the total conundrum of raising a child who just doesn't get it! And to boot they never will...Thus, apparently we need different parenting techniques. A great idea in theory. If this was college, I would completely take that class on consequences for the unconsequecable kid! I might even go everyday! And not just get the notes! Instead I took Botany and Biology and Economics. Obviously...those subjects have gotten me nowhere. The job I thought I was prepared for has floored me. OMG...need help.

Mother's Day

So I got my gift early tonight...because it was such a good gift that I would love, hubby couldn't wait. He started talking about it about 3 weeks ago. How great and how perfect this particular gift was for me. I should preface by saying two things. 1. I hate surprises. Totally, can't stand them. 2. I hate getting an expensive gift after being asked for 11 months to "cut expenses" (like at Target! not Prada). So, tonight, the boys unveiled the best gift for me: an industrial size hand sanitizer that mounts on the wall. With refills.
Granted, their hearts and minds were in the right place. But...NOOOOOOO! Opening the gift, I immediately flashed back to my classroom a year ago where multiple children would line up to use said object and/or the numerous times the device never worked and secreted an oozing goop of slime on the floor for days. Not a warm fuzzy memory...plus the fact I was dismissed from said job for lower paid neophyte. And...really what does it say about me????
Nothing good. And even though I know I am overly-zealous when it comes to hand -washing...at least I am old school. Hand-washing. In a sink. With hot water and soap. Happy Mother's Day to me...germ-a-phobe! It is my nightmare realized...
Two years ago, I was subbing in a classroom and the students were writing about what their moms always say to them. I must admit my first thought was, "Oh no, my kids are going to say, "Did you wash your hands?" But later that night, I asked my sons what I always say to them and they said you always say, "I love you." Phew! But yet, hand sanitizer as gift???