Exorcise The Demons!

     I had to take Skeletor to the doctor today.  He had a tick on his back a few days ago, and the spot where he was bitten was still looking a little hinky to me.  (Can you blame me for my paranoia?)  Anyway, I took Sassafrass along with us because...well, because I'm pretty sure it's illegal to leave a 6 year old at home alone.  That was just about the only thing stopping me, though.  I would have rather taken a beating than suffered the hell that was this doctor's appointment.  This level of bad behavior in public is nearly unprecedented.  Don't get me wrong, they act a damn fool at home all the time.  But, in public, I can generally count on them to at least give a tiny shiver of fear when I scream at them.  Not so much, today.  There was no one particular thing they did, but the accumulation of all of it.  The screaming, the shouting, the scratching, the hiding in cubby holes, the howling like wolves, the leaping from the exam table like vampire bats; all of these things served to make my blood pressure skyrocket.  It was rough.  (My aneurysm grew three sizes that day.)  I don't think I have PTSD from Iraq, but I tell you this much, I sure as shooting have it from this doctor's visit. 

Medicine, Y U No Work?

     If you're one of the precious few followers of this blog (and bless your bones for that,) then you know I have Lyme Disease.  Or "The Lymes," as I like to call it.  I was just diagnosed a couple of months ago, even though there's no telling how long I've had it.  So, I've been taking my medicine like a good little patient, but it's not working!  I had a brief period of respite for one day last week, but that may have just been a placebo effect.  I'm now done with my three week course of antibiotics, and I still feel craptastic.  And this makes me the crankiest of pandas.  I've got an appointment with a rheumatologist Monday, so maybe something else can be done.  But for right now, I think I will just throw myself a pity party.  Does anyone have any cheese that I can have with my whine?

Medic mommy down! 

Remember

For all my brothers and sisters who never came home.
  Past, present, and future.

The Reverse Mommy Wars

     By now I'm sure we've all heard about the recent Time cover.  (There were boobies, right?)  And we've all seen the absolute shit show that followed it.  It's pretty hard to offend both sides of a disagreement with one picture, but Time did it.  Congrats, Time, you win a blender or something!  But despite my self-deprecating attitude regarding parenting, I actually feel like I don't do too awful of a job.  I'm pretty comfortable with my parenting choices, so people can talk all the smack they want.  I truly do not care.  So, needless to say, the Time cover really didn't do too much other than give me a bit of the old heebie jeebies.  But something that does seem to be a disturbing trend (and by disturbing trend I mean it's happened to me several times and I found it annoying) is what I like to call the Reverse Mommy Wars.  It's what happens when parents compete over whose child is less developed or less healthy.  And it kind of makes me vomit in my mouth a tad bit.

     In spite of my name for the phenomenon, the person who most recently committed this parental hate crime was a dude.  As Skeletor and I sat in the super awesome Vanderbilt Pediatric Department's waiting room, a man and his son sat next to us.  He looked at Skeletor, sizing him up, and asked, "What's wrong with him?"  (Don't even get me started on that.  I've had that happen more than once in a special needs facility.  Some people have no home training.)  I merely said that we were here for an evaluation with a strongly implied "now eff off" tacked onto the end of my sentence.  He then said something that irritated me even more.  He looked at Skeletor and then his son and said, "Well, you're just lucky he's verbal."  And then he proceeded to assess Skeletor and compare him to his son, who was clearly more severely autistic. 
     Seriously, guy?  This is not a competition, and if it was I would definitely not want to be the winner.  I'm sorry that your kid has some struggles that are different from my son's.  But, I'm pretty sure that my son has some struggles that your child doesn't deal with.  Can't we all just get along, people?!  I find it depressing that this type of behavior happens.  Even though we have special needs children, why in God's name would we not brag about all the awesome stuff they do?  I don't want you to feel sorry for me or my son.  We needs no pity parties around our way.  (Unless I'm throwing one.  I'm a hypocrite sometimes.)  I can see that some parents would hold back on this because they don't want to upset parents whose children aren't progressing as well as they had hoped.  But that wasn't the case with this douche kabob.  Instead of focusing on his child's strengths, he seemed to be using his son's disability to form his own personality.  And he was intent on tearing down anyone who might be doing the same.  And that is just sad.  Also gross.  So I would just like to make a plea to all the special needs parents out there.  We can commiserate with each other and give each other a shoulder to lean on, but let's talk about the good stuff, too!  Because even though it doesn't always seem like it, there's almost always more good stuff than bad.  And that's nothing to hide.

It's Friday. I'm In Love.

     Friday is finally here.  This has seemed like the longest week ever!  Anyhoo, Friday obviously means Special Needs Ryan Gosling day over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood with the lovely Sunday Stilwell.  So, without further ado, here's my contributions for the week. 

Sounds good to me!

My hero!



How I Very Nearly Saved My Not-At-All Dying Neighbor's Life...Again

     As an EMT and a medic in the Guard, I possess just enough medical knowledge to know the worst case scenario of pretty much any injury or illness.  A belly-flop onto an upside down stool equals internal bleeding or perforated intestines.  A malicious Campbell's soup can means tetanus; an unexplained fever for two weeks could be meningitis; a tick might as well be Typhoid Mary.  I don't like the term paranoid.  I prefer hyper-vigilant.  Anyway, suffice it to say that I'm always on the look-out for potential emergencies.

     Last week I was sitting out on my front stoop looking all gangster and nefarious (I like to imagine,) when I heard a series of groans and shouts coming from my neighbor's open window.  Now I remembered my husband mentioning something about the man who lives across the street from us being unwell.  But for the life of me I couldn't remember what exactly the ailment was.  He didn't sound sick or in pain, and I was pretty sure that Captain Gingerbeard mentioned something about the man being a little off.  So I went back inside.  (I'm not a hero, damn it.)
     This continued over the next three days.  By the third day, the man began loudly cursing repeatedly.  I swear I was thiclose to calling 911.  But just as I was about to make the call, the man walked out of his front door and over to his car.  He appeared perfectly fine...other than the fact that he seemed to be suffering from Tourette's.  I don't know if that's his actual diagnosis, but that's what it looked like.  This brush with embarrassment reminded me of a similar event from my childhood.
     My brother, my cousins, and I were riding our bikes around our neighborhood (also looking gangster and nefarious.)  As we passed one of our neighbor's homes, we noticed his front door was open and that the man was lying lifeless in front of his glass storm door.  We high-tailed it straight back to my mom, and proclaimed our neighbor dead.  My mom piled us in our mini-van, and drove the few houses over.  She ran up to the man's door, and jerked it wide open.  And then the dead man sat up.  Or rather the man who was not dead but merely sunning himself like a cat sat up.  My mother was super embarrassed, and this story has been told many times throughout the years.
     So you see, people, it seems that my "storm on the horizon" mentality has been with me since birth.  Well, when it relates to medical problems, that is.  Oddly enough, I have a pathologically optimistic view on pretty much everything else in life.  But, if it's related to the inner workings of the human body, I'm pretty much always under the assumption that the poop is going to hit the fan...sometimes literally.

Bad Nature! Bad!

     The kids have only been out of school for a few days now, but already Nature is exacting its revenge on Skeletor.  I don't know what he did to Nature that was so bad, but I'm sure he did something.  Yesterday morning, Skeletor woke me up by whispering that he had green dirt on his "dinglehopper."  (I didn't really think it through when I chose our family's nickname for a penis based on what Ariel called a fork in "The Little Mermaid."  Too late now.)  Anyway, I'm immediately intrigued/terrified.  I'm thinking most people would be experiencing this range of emotions if those words were the first thing they heard from their 5 year old in the morning.  After I got my glasses, I discovered that the "green dirt" was, in fact, a tick.  Awesome, right?  The last thing I wanted, especially after "The Incident," was to have to physically restrain my kid to remove that bug.  Can you say scarred for life?  However, we were all spared that trauma.  The Captain ran a very warm bath for Skeletor, and I guess the heat loosened the tick's grip.  That brave boy was able to remove the little parasite himself with minimal effort and zero tears or screaming.  Hooray!
     Unfortunately, Nature was not done with my boy child.  The next morning while we were playing on the back porch, Skeletor stepped on a wasp.  For realsies, Nature?  I think you've made your point!  I gave the lad my debit card, and instructed him on gently scraping out the stinger.  Again, he took it like a champ.  But later that day, Nature struck again.  Skeletor broke an outdoor thermometer, and ingested a mouthful of mercury.  (Not really a force of nature, but it came from outside.  So I think Nature's guilty by association.)  Poison control was called, and we were assured that the mercury was only dangerous if it was heated and vaporized.  So...good to know, then?  I don't even want to think about what could happen next, but I'm thisclose to issuing Nature a restraining order.  You hear that, Nature?  You're on thin ice (literally and figuratively!)  Stay away from my family or I'm busting out the aerosol hairspray!

The Incident: Pervapalooza

     It's been three weeks since "The Incident."  (There should be an ominous soundtrack echoing through your head right about now.)  School has been out for a week, and I feel that it's now (hopefully) safe to blog about.  And I need to vent about it; it was traumatic for everyone involved.
     Three weeks ago, I received a phone call from our school's principal.  I had only been home from dropping them off for about thirty minutes, so I was immediately worried.  She informed me that Skeletor was in the office.  His offense?  Grabbing his classmate's...um...special area.  The principal was very kind about it, but said he would need to stay in the office for a period of time as punishment.  I felt that was the right thing to do.  He may not have understood exactly what he was doing, but he definitely needed to learn that this behavior was not okay.

See?  Not okay.

     The other child was not injured and did not appear to be upset about the incident.  Skeletor was talked to by the principal, the school counselor, his speech therapist, his teachers, and his parents.  The counselor came and spoke to the whole pre-k class about good touch and bad touch.  Problem solved right?  Yeah, not so much.  When we came to school the next morning to drop the kids off, the other child's father was there waiting on us.  He wanted a meeting with us and the principal.
     Going in, we thought we were just going to sit down and discuss what had happened.  Just apologize, make assurances about what we were doing to remedy the problem, touch base, etc.  What we got was an ambush.  As soon as we sat down, this man said, "I don't know if you know who I am, but I work for the Sherrif's Department."  O-kaaaay.  That's cool, I guess.  "This will not happen to my child.  If anything like this happens again, I'm calling the Department of Children's Services.  I've seen this kind of thing before."  Cue righteous indignation and fiery anger.
     I knew what he was insinuating.  He was saying that because Skeletor had done this, he was clearly being molested.  Now, I know that's not the biggest of leaps.  But I knew why Skeletor did what he did.  And as I opened my mouth to try to explain, I was told that he didn't care.  At this point, I was starting to lose my cool.  I began talking over him, and wouldn't shut up.  My voice grew increasingly loud as I told him that Skeletor had just the day before had a well check-up with a new doctor.  One who didn't ask permission or give any warning before he checked on Skeletor's "boys."  To everyone I spoke to, this was clearly the reason that a child who is no trouble at school would do such a thing.  But the other parent wasn't trying to hear that, see?  (I would like to add that I was falling all over myself apologizing.  It's not as if I think because my son is autistic that he can put his hands on other people.)  And then it happened.  I burst into tears.
     I am not a "cryer."  I cry maybe ever two or three months, and it's usually when I'm by myself.  I'm not one to just get all slobbery and crap in front of people.  But something snapped in me, and I started bawling like a baby.  I was so embarrassed.  I kept apologizing for my tears, while simultaneously issuing those gulping sobs that toddlers are known for.  But, despite my humiliation, it was the best thing that could have happened.  Because this man was a good, old boy.  And good, Southern boys can't stand to see women crying.  Even when they are the reason for the tears.  Maybe especially when they are the reason. 
     So my tears where clearly magical, and we never heard anything else from this man.  The next day his kid grabbed another girl's butt.  Apparently this was an issue all week, for several of the kids in Skeletor's class.  In fact, his teacher dubbed the week "Pervapalooza," which I think is entirely amazing.  Anyway, sorry for the super duper gargantuan size post, but I needed to let this out into the interwebs.  I promise I will keep my next few posts all tiny and delicate and bite-sized.

It's Friday...And You Ain't Got Sh*t To Do!

     It's Friday, and you know what that means.  It's Special Needs Ryan Gosling Day with Sunday Stilwell over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood!  Hooray!  I have also added a bonus Madea picture, because I like to share.  Sharing is caring!

I will totally be the big spoon.

This is what popped into my head every time I saw this picture. 
So I made it.  Like some sort of sorcerer.

And So It Begins.

     School has been out for all of two days, and my children have already lost their damn minds.  It would not surprise me in the least if it were discovered that their brains had somehow turned into jello and dripped right on out of their ears.  Much like a biblical plague, my house has been set upon by cranky, bored hellbeasts children.  After a mere forty-eight hours of unfettered access, every toy that has ever entered this house is now viewed as garbage, and the little turds are frankly insulted that I would dare think they should play with any of it.  There's also been quite a bit of bloodshed and tears (not mine.)  I'm pretty sure that my bathroom floor is going to have to be replaced...again.  Oh, and Skeletor has decided that he is madly in love with a pitchfork that he found in the shed!  Because that's not dangerous at all, right?  Oh em geezy, George and Weezy!
     And because it's summer vacation, the song "School's Out" by the illustrious Mr. Alice Cooper has been stuck in my head on repeat.  Which reminds me of watching him sing the song on the Muppet Show when I was a kid.  You should watch it.  It is a pretty accurate metaphor for my experience so far.  In this clip, the role of yours truly will be played by Alice (much as I hope it one day will be when I have my own Lifetime movie.)  Notice how I start out all calm and serene, pleased with the prospect of school being out for the summer.  But then things grow ominous.  I am surrounded by freaky, monster children.  They tease me and harrass me until the inevitable occurs.  That's right.  I transform into an evil devil rocking a red bodysuit and some fairly awesome boots.  Even as I type these words, I am overwhelmed by an urge to search for Halloween costumes on the interwebs.  It's happening, people.  You've been warned.  Beeeee-waaaaaare!

The change is upon me.

Cool. Cool, Cool, Cool: Why I Love Abed.

The awesome Danny Pudi plays Abed.

     So, I'm a big fan of "Community," right?  I love it more than is probably natural to love a television show.  I would totally marry it and have its babies, if the technology existed.  (Get on that, scientists.)  That being said, I have a particular affinity for the character of Abed.  To anyone not familiar with the show (and you should be ashamed,) Abed is a member of a study group at a community college.  Hilarity ensues.  That's really all you need to know.  But Abed is different.  I don't think it's ever actually said straight out, but Abed is on the spectrum.  But the thing that's so great about this character and this show is that Abed is freaking awesome.  He's not only one of the group, he is arguably the coolest of the cool kids.  His obsession with television and his odd social mannerisms are neither focused on nor avoided.  He's just Abed, and that's how he is.  He has a best friend.  He has a love life.  He goes to college.  Personally, these are all things that I worry about for my son, so I love seeing this.  Some of Abed's meltdowns are even shown, but in a positive light (as positive as a meltdown can be.)  The point is, Abed is not portrayed as a freak or a savant with seemingly magical powers.  He's just a dude who happens to have some issues, much like every other person on the face of the earth.  I have no idea whether the character of Abed was envisioned in this way, but I think that it's a very powerful thing to see on television.  This character and this television show are exactly what I think of when I hear the term "autism acceptance."  Abed isn't the autistic character, he's a character who happens to be autistic.  And while that may seem like a slight distinction, trust me when I say that it couldn't be bigger if it tried. 

We Have A Diagnosis

This is what awesome looks like.

     I don't know why, but as I typed the title of this post, I finished it with, "And The Only Prescription Is More Cowbell."  Lord, what is wrong with me?  Now, I've gone and jacked up the whole mood of this, which is supposed to be serious.  Maybe?  Yes.  I don't know.  Argh.
     Today I took Skeletor to our long awaited appointment with a doctor at Vanderbilt specializing in pediatric developmental disorders.  Young Master Skeletor was assessed and evaluated and observed and lots of other watch-y, look-y type things.  At the end of our hour or so with the doctor, we left with a diagnosis.  My son is autistic.
     That seems so scary and final to say.  It's no longer, "He might be autistic."  It's now a fact.  Granted, we've strongly suspected this for the last two and a half years.  But it's still kind of shocking to hear it.  Kind of feels like when you fell off the swingset at school and got the breath knocked out of you.  But I'm okay.  Captain Gingerbeard and the other kids are okay.  Skeletor is okay.  We're all okay.  I'm not even sad or angry.  I went through my brief "mourning" period six months ago when our pediatrician gave us a probable autism diagnosis.  I grieved for some imaginary child who is supposedly perfect and definitely doesn't exist.  Things aren't how I thought they would be for my child, but are they ever?  Sure, I have my pity parties more often than I would care to admit, but my son is healthy and he's happy.  And that's a whole lot more than a lot of parents can say.  (Not that I won't be griping on here.  That's what blogs are for!)
     Nothing changed today with this diagnosis.  Skeletor is still the same kid he was yesterday.  He is still a sweet, kind, funny, smart, loving little boy.  He still has the same unique set of challenges that he has always had.  The only thing that happened today is that we now have the information we need to provide every single thing that we can so our child can live a happy, healthy life.  This diagnosis almost feels freeing.  I no longer have to worry about what may or may not be wrong.  Now I can just focus on what's right for him.

Say Your Right Words

     Every time Skeletor gets upset and yells that he can't find his words, I think of a scene from the movie "Labyrinth."  You know the one.  A bunch of freaky, little goblin muppets are hiding in Sarah's closet during a thunder storm, waiting on her to say the words that will summon the Goblin King.  (I may have seen this movie once or twice.)  And then they say the line that always pops into my head in these situations, "Say your right words!"  I can't help it.  I'm a child of the 80's.

Pictured: My childhood.

     But here lately, I would love it if Skeletor would just say any words.  My child is verbal, and I know that not everyone is lucky in that sense.  He does have speech problems that he works on with his awesome speech therapist at school.  But he has never been completely nonverbal.  Until about a month ago.  At first, it only happened once or twice, and only when he was having one of his meltdowns.  Then it slowly progressed to the point that at least 50 percent of his communication is done via hand gestures or miming.  (I have never liked mime.)  I know that this is something that should be discouraged, and I do my best to do so.  But sometimes, after a really rough day, when Skeletor is in one of his really rough moods...I cave.  Instead of insisting that he use his words, I just go with it and attempt to understand what he wants.  It's like playing the worst game of charades ever.  Except if you guess wrong, you run the risk of getting whacked in the head with an errant remote control (or coffee table.  The kid's strong!)  And even if you guess correctly, your only prize is the all-encompassing mommy guilt that comes from taking the easy way out.  Blergh.  I was going to try to come up with a tidy, little ending to this post.  But, no.  Pretty sure 'blergh' sums it up nicely.  So...yeah.  Bye?

Special Needs Ryan Gosling Is Special

     Whoot whoot!  It's Friday!  And that means it's Special Needs Ryan Gosling Day over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood!  Come join Sunday and the rest of us cool kids as we make Ryan Gosling bend to our collective will!  Laters!

Awesome super-secret hiding place.

I Wanna Be Sedated

     Oh, don't mind me.  My head's just going to explode at any minute, flinging grey matter all about my living room.  Skeletor and Sassafrass (who are only ten months apart in age, bt dubs) have been at each other's throats all week.  Yet, they refuse to be separated.  Put them in different rooms, and they're all, "Nooooooo!  We're best friends!  We love each other!"  And then two seconds later, pow!  Right in the kisser.  I am so tempted to just let them duke it out gladiator style.  Two kids enter, only one leaves.  But, alas, I fear that the authorities would somehow hold me responsible for the resulting carnage.  Lame.  And to add insult to injury, all the joints in my body are all swollen and Lyme-y, making it even more difficult than usual to make them respect my authoritah.  It's hard to rule with an iron first when one can't even make a fist.  Ooooohhhh!  I need a fist like the one Dr. Claw had on "Inspector Gadget!"  I have to go, now.  I know that someone out there in the vastness of the interwebs has a Dr. Claw prosthetic that they are willing to part with.  Or they can build me a scale-model gladiator ring in my backyard.  Either of these things would make a fabulous Mother's Day present. 



This is what I want, Captain Gingerbeard. 
Gangster spiked bracelet included.

Purple People Eater

     As I was driving out to the kids' school this afternoon, my mind started to wander.  Because who pays attention to the road while driving, amiright?  Anyway, I'm thinking my thoughts and whatnot, and I am suddenly reminded of the 80's movie "Purple People Eater."  (No, I don't know what prompted this crazy train back to my childhood; I tend to just go with it.)

Not at all unsettling.

     And then it occurs to me how much Skeletor would love this movie!  And then it further occurs to me (occurses?) that Skeletor is a bit of an anachronism.  (Thanks for teaching me that word, Dresden Dolls!)  He would have absolutely loved the 80's and all of its scary, slightly inappropriate children's movies!  Think about it: Labyrinth, The Dark Crystal, Return to Oz, Legend, The Neverending Story, The Hugga Bunch Movie (particularly creepy to me,) Garbage Pail Kids!  You could go on forever!  He has already seen a couple of these movies, and really enjoyed them.  And I can't wait to unearth more of my childhood traumas with him!  Huzzah to the 80's!

Welcome To Fight Club

     I will now proceed to break the first rule of Fight Club.  And the second one.  This afternoon as we pulled into our driveway, Skeletor and Sassafrass unbuckled themselves and jumped into the "trunk" of our minivan.  I put that in quotations because I don't know if the area behind the third row seat of a minivan counts as a trunk.  But, I digress.  Anyway, they leaped with abandon into the trunk-like area in the back of our van.  And before my eyes, they transformed from sweet children happily at play into bare-knuckle bruisers not unlike a certain gypsy character from another Brad Pitt movie.  They were SCRAPPIN', ya'll!  Names were called, skin was scratched, someone asked me to hold their earrings, and one of them might have pulled out a razor.  It was insanity!  Then, sweet Sassafrass straight up cold-cocked her brother.  Punched him dead in the eye.  I'm not going to lie; it was slightly impressive coming from a six year old.  And then they both ran off crying in opposite directions, and it was over.  Total time spent in the ring?  Less than five seconds.  Bookies all over West Tennessee are cursing our names tonight.

Dramatic recreation.

What's My Motivation, Here?

     I have no idea whether the behavior I am about to describe is "normal" for a child like Skeletor.  I also have no idea whether my reaction to said behavior is acceptable.  Also, at this very moment, I don't care.  This is what every recent afternoon has been like with my child.
    
     "Mommy, turn around." 
     I comply.
     "Now, you gotta say, 'Good job, skeleton.'  Ok?"
     "Good job, skeleton!" I exclaim dramatically and believably.
     "NOOOOOOOOOO!!!  You didn't say it right!"  Disgusted sigh.  "Let's do it again."
     Repeat as necessary.

Ready for my close-up.

     I feel like Shelley Duvall on the set of "The Shining," being driven slowly and methodically insane by a tiny Stanley Kubrick as I am forced to repeat the same line over and over again, praying that I get the inflection right this time.  And refusing to participate is not an option.  In that instance, Skeletor channels Jack Nicholson and goes all, "Here's Johnny!"  (I didn't plan on this whole thing being a "Shining" metaphor, but...who cares?)  So, in what I hope is what I'm supposed to do in this situation, I take a deep breath and get ready for Take # 72.  I plaster on a smile (or scary face- as the situation demands,) and say my line again.  I ignore everything else that I need to be doing at that moment.  And I definitely ignore the splitting headache and the sharp pain where the lining of my stomach used to be.  Because I'm his mommy, and that's what I'm supposed to do...I think.

5 Reasons Lady Gaga Can't Be Your Babysitter (And Stop Asking Me!)

     Recently, my six year old daughter, Sassafrass, asked me if Lady Gaga could pretty please with sugar on top be her babysitter.  I told her no, explaining that much to my displeasure Lady Gaga is not a friend of the family.  Logic did not prevail, and she continues to hound me about it.  Thusly, I have made a list of five arbitrary and random reasons why Lady Gaga can't be her babysitter.  I am hoping that the visual aids will help my case.

5 Reasons Lady Gaga Can't Be Your Babysitter (And Stop Asking Me!)

1)  Buddy the Stuffed Giraffe, aka your Very Best Friend in the Entire World, will not be safe.  Just look what she did to Kermit!  (Oh, the humanity!)

Above: Kermi-cide.

2)  She won't feed you.  Instead, she will make provocative fashion statements out of your dinner.  You WILL go hungry.

Above: Steak that is not in your tum-tum.

3)  She's a bit too liberal with the bubbles, there.  We're in a recession!  "Sorry, kid, I used all the bubble bath.  Guess your bath's gonna suck!"

Above: Reckless disregard for the price of bubble bath.

4)  The woman will not answer her phone!  What if there was an emergency?  That's just plain irresponsible!

Above:  Giving you the 'wait one.' 

5)  Yeah, about this one.  We're a military family, sweetie.  And I just can't condone her holding her weapons by the magazine.  Sorry.

Above: A deal-breaker.

Bonus Reason!!!

Above: The stuff of nightmares.

     And, there you have it, my list of random reasons that Lady Gaga can not be my children's babysitter.  Bt dubs, we absolutely adore Mother Monster around our house!  So, Lady Gaga, as I'm sure you are a devoted reader of my blog, please know that this was all in jest.  You can totally move to Tennessee and be our live-in nanny!  Pretty please with sugar on top?

My First Special Needs Ryan Gosling Post

     This is my first attempt at the Special Needs Ryan Gosling meme hosted by the super awesome Sunday over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood.  It's inspired by a very upsetting experience we had at Skeletor's school today.  But, I'm emotionally shell-shocked right now, so I will save that story for another day.  But, here's my SN Ryan Gosling contribution!  Ta-tas!

Awwwww, yeah.

     Update: I just wanted to make it perfectly clear to anyone and everyone (and no one) that is reading this.  I am in no way making light of the afore-mentioned "incident."  But, really, if I don't laugh, I'll scream.  And screaming makes my throat all ouchy.  But, then I might sound like Jessica Rabbit, which would be cool.  Hmmm...now I'm confused.  

Keep Your Head Down And Pray For Bedtime!

     Jesus, Mary and Jo-jo, it's been one of those days!  I had to pick Skeletor up early from school for a doctor's appointment, thus throwing off his whole routine.  And thuslier, pretty much guaranteeing a hellacious evening for the whole family.  But, I'm too tired and cranky to bore you with the itenerary of my pity party.  So, I will just leave you with this.  Because it makes me giggly, and it's my family's un-official themesong.  (We don't have an official one, but I don't know what makes this one unworthy of that title.  Fine.  It's our Official Family Themesong!)

Uh-oh, banana time!

 P.S.  As I know for a fact that "thuslier" is not a word, I'm forced to work under the assumption that my spellcheck is on break.  So ignore any spelling errors you may come across.  This spelling nazi thanks you.

Stranger Danger and My Special Needs Child

     First off, if anyone happened to be sent here in search of answers by the genie that lives in the interwebs, I'm afraid I have none.  I do have loads of concerns and questions, though, if you would like to have a worry buddy!  Now, back to me (as it always should be, right?)
     Today was Field Day at my children's school.  Children were everywhere, running amok on a tidal wave of sugar and sunshine and sweat.  Tiny little natural disasters, each and every one of them.  Excluding mine, of course, because they are sweet and perfect angel babies who can never do wrong.  (I wish I had a sarcasm font.)
     Anyhoozle, I was doing my best to keep my heathens precious children from injuring themselves or others (mainly the others.)  But, in the midst of all the sunscreen-scented calamity, I turned my back for one moment.  When I turned back around, I realized Skeletor (my five year old) was not standing next to me.  He was about 20 feet away, talking to a man sitting by himself on the playground equipment.  The man was wearing a shirt with a skeleton on it, and had several tattoos scary enough to garner Skeletor's attention.
     This was not an immediate panic situation, as we were sitting on the school playground surrounded by about a bajillion teachers.  I called Skeletor back over to me, and proceeded to warn him not to talk to strangers.  Problem solved, yes?  Um, no.  Not two minutes later, Skeletor was back talking to the creeper man again.  Again, I called him back over to me, and told him not to talk to strangers.  His response infuriated/horrified me.
     "But, Mommy, that man says he's not a stranger.  He's my best friend!"
     Now, I know that his man was there at the Field Day for a reason, and was *probably* not a kidnapping child molester.  But, really, guy?  Why in God's name would you tell a child whose mother is CLEARLY trying to teach him about the danger of talking to strangers that you're not a stranger?  Yes!  Yes, you are!  Does my child know you by name?  Are you friendsies?  Do you two share inside jokes and have a special handshake?  No, pretty sure you don't!  Blergh!
     This whole thing would have been irritating and scary if it had happened to one of my typical kids.  But, Skeletor is not typical.  He doesn't yet possess the language skills necessary to fully explain the dangers of talking to people that you don't know.  I'm torn.  I don't want to discourage him from interacting with other people, but at the same time, certain people are not to be interacted with!  I do the best that I can to tell him clearly what constitutes a stranger, but, let's be real.  In Skeletor's world, nearly every single person is a stranger.  Even children he sits in a classroom with all day long. 
     So, I guess I'm going to be doing some research to see what I can find to help me with this.  Maybe they make stranger danger videos for kids with special needs.  Maybe they don't, but I totally need to.  Maybe this is all gibberish, and I'm just a little touched in the head from all the sun I got today.  Who knows?  Not me!

Some needed levity for a serious topic...also brevity.  Ha, word jokes!

     P.S.  I would like to make myself clear.  Dude at the playground, if you had spoken to my child one more time today, you were probably going to get cut.  I never can tell what I'm going to do.  But, I've always got my pig-sticker close by.  You've been warned.