The Peanut Butter Solution

     Disclaimer: this post has little to do with the morbid and creepifying 1985 children's movie The Peanut Butter Solution, other than both use peanut butter as a major plot point.  Also, the protagonist of the film and I both have amazing hair, which may or may not be the result of ghostly specters urging me to do strange things with the foodstuffs.  (Side note: can we all agree that this movie may be both the best and worst thing to ever happen in the 80's?  I blame slash give credit to Canada.  Ya'll so crazy!)

Don't hate us because we're beautiful.

     Now, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?  Like most autistic children, Skeletor is a picky eater.  Very picky.  Like he would probably let himself succumb to starvation before he ventured outside whatever his four food groups happen to be that year.  One of his very favorite things to eat is a peanut butter sandwich.  (No jelly!  That's lowbrow!)  So, naturally, I pack him one in his lunchbox every day.  Every.  Single.  Day.  And he usually eats his entire sandwich, has a full tum tum, and is a happy camper.  Until recently, that is.  The last few weeks, Skeletor has been bringing home a lunchbox that still contains an entirely intact peanut butter sandwich.  Nary a nibble out of the thing.  Which was pretty weird considering that he was still chowing down on the things at home.  After repeated questioning, badgering, and nagging on my part, eventually the reason came out.  My sweet, kind-hearted, adorable, precious angel baby was not eating his most favoritest of foods because his friend that sits next to him at lunch is allergic to peanuts.  Lack of empathy, huh?  Pffftttttttttttttt (phonetically spelled out, unladylike fart sound.)

Overwhelming Overwhelminess

     Hey, guys, I'm throwing a pity party, and you're all invited!  For cereal, though, I haven't updated my blog in...oh, forever because things have been kind of rough around here.  So, now I'm going to vent.  You don't have to read it, but it's my party, and I'll cry if I want to!
     To start with, I know lots of people have it rougher than I do.  I know this.  But, lately, I feel like we can't catch a break.  And, for once in the history of this blog, the struggles have nothing to do with Autism.  To the contrary, my son has been rocking the pants off of the first grade.  I knew he was a smart cookie, but I had no idea that he was actually face-meltingly brilliant.  (It's a medical term.  Look it up.)  We seem to have found a system for doing things that actually works.  So, yay, three cheers for us, right?  Yes.  But, every other thing going on in our lives seems to be ten times more difficult than necessary.  My seven year old is really, really struggling with first grade.  (She repeated kindergarten, and is now in the same grade as Skeletor.)  We have an appointment soon to have her evaluated for...I don't even know.  Whatever's causing her extreme difficulties?  We have a family history of dyslexia among other things.  So, yeah.  That's not fun.
     Then, of course, is my fibromyalgia and its corresponding lack of gainful employment.  (Which causes soul-sucking poverty.)  If anyone has actually read this blog semi-regularly (?), you might recall that I've been struggling with a mysterious illness for several years now.  Because it started when I was in Iraq, I called it my Terrible Iraqi Wasting Disease.  Then, when I got back to the States and the symptoms didn't go away, it became my Terrible Intercontinental Wasting Disease or TICWD (pronounced Ticweed) for short.  Then I was misdiagnosed with the Lymes, and now, five years later, here I sit being all fibromyalgia-y and junk.  It is also not fun.
     So, I say all that to say this:  I'm back.  For real this time.  Baby, I won't ever leave you again.  I promise.  You're my soul mate, girl.  Take me back.  Please?

                                                  What I would look like if I were a cartoon.

Do Sharks Have Autism?

     Recently (which is my way of saying months ago,) my son was playing in the bathtub.  In the midst of all the washing and splashing and tra-la-la-ing, something happened that made my stomach drop.  My dear, sweet, perfect, lovely, made of muffins, angel baby looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, what's different?" Now, I've always found it difficult to explain the definitions of words to people.  It's pretty much my only flaw.  Nonetheless, I stuttered and hmmmed and hawed my way through an explanation.  Success!  He seemed to be picking up what I was laying down.  However, my figurative (and maybe literal) self back-patting came to a screeching halt when I heard his follow-up question.  "Mommy, why am I different?"
     Cue heart breaking and dramatic music.  It has been almost a year now since Skeletor was diagnosed as Autistic, but at this point we had not yet had The Talk with him.  I knew it was coming, but I just didn't think it would be so soon.  I would have explained it all to him as soon as we left the doctor's office last May, but he didn't possess the communication skills.  (He's come a long way in speech therapy!)  Also, I'm chicken, and I was scared of scarring him for life with the utter debacle I was sure to make of my explanation.
     So, in complete terror, I kind of half-assed my way through the standard "everyone is different, and that's a good thing" speech.  But I could tell Skeletor wasn't completely satisfied with this answer.  Another, more in depth conversation would be coming soon.  I must away to the interwebs!  I knew that I wanted to start the conversation by reading him a book about Autism (see above poultry-like attributes,) but which one to pick?  Although there doesn't seem to be an over-abundance of books on the subject, I was still stuck.  I wanted it to be perfect.  After much research and study-age and such, I finally decided on "Ben Has Autism.  Ben Is Awesome."

You can find the book by clicking this here linky-poo.

   
     I ordered the book and awaited its arrival with bated breath.  It was a lovely little book, and served its purpose by setting us up for The Talk.  After we finished reading it, I dove in head first.  I reminded Skeletor of our "why am I different" conversation.  And then I just said it.  I told him that he has Autism, which is why he gets so upset sometimes and has trouble staying still (among other things.)  And I also told him that Autism is part of what makes him so absolutely gangster (our household word for cooler than being cool.)  I'm sure other things of the deep and meaningful variety were said, but it's kind of all a blur.  But the one thing that I will never forget?  After I stressed myself out so badly over this talk, the very first thing that popped out of his mouth when I asked him if he had any questions was, "Do sharks have Autism?"  I repeat, the kid is perfection.

Pictured: hilarity.

Stuff. And Things.

     Hi, everyone!  Did you miss me?  Was your life a deep, black, soul-sucking abyss without me?  No?  Ok, that's cool, too.  I have been on what some may call a sabbatical, but what I like to refer to as my bi-annual nervous breakdown.  Don't worry.  I wasn't hauled off in a self-hugging white coat or anything.  I just had to jettison all the unnecessary luggage in my life for a while so we didn't all go down in flames.  But things are beginning to smooth themselves out a little, so I'm going to be catching you up on everything you've missed in the last three months.  Which, believe it or not, we actually had some pretty big moments.  It began when Skeletor asked me why he was different.  Then came the Talk, when we told him that he has Autism.  We also had the talk with the siblings.  Then I went to the kids' school to talk to them about Autism.  There have also been tons of other non-Autism-y things, as well.  As there often are, you know?  But, I digress.  The point is that I'm back.  Rejoice.  I command it.  (Please?)

This was here.

Rhyming Dirty Words

     Let's just forget my last hissy fit of a blog post, shall we?  Is that cool with everyone?  Yes?  Good.  Moving on, then.  Shortly before Christmas, Skeletor's class began really hammering home the concept of rhyming words.  Either that, or Skeletor just waited until then to show off his new skill.  Regardless, the boy has been walking around rhyming everything.  At first, I was all, "Yay!  Good job, boy child!  I'm so very proud of you!"  But that pride has suddenly changed to...well, a mixture of feelings.
     In the last couple of months, Skeletor has become very "interested" in sharks.  Meaning, of course, that he eats, sleeps, breathes, and talks about nothing but sharks.  Especially Jaws.  Jaws is his jam.  I say all of that to say this.  Everyone knows the scene at the end of the movie "Jaws" where Brody feeds Jaws an oxygen tank and utters the iconic "Smile, you son of a" line before blowing Jaws into chum.  Well, that scene is classic for a reason.  And, as such, it has resonated with Skeletor, too.  Honestly, I don't even know if the movie actually finishes that line, but a lot of the YouTube "Jaws" parodies that Skeletor has been watching certainly do.  (Yeah, I know.  I'm a crappy parent.  Whatevers.)
     ANYWAY, to finally get to the point of this post, learning how to rhyme plus shark explosion related dirty words has led to Skeletor's new favorite past time, rhyming dirty words.  First it was, "Smile, you son of a witch!"  Now, it's "dumblass" and "bam!"  I'm sure it's just a matter of time before he graduates to "motherclucker."  Frankly, I was unaware that the boy had so many curse words stored away in that brain of his.  (Again, I suck at life and parenting.)
     Part of me is chagrined.  All I need is for him to go off on a rhyming tangent at school.  I've already been there and done that this school year.  Another part of me is impressed by the critical thinking skills required to pull this off.  But, mostly?  I just think it's freaking hilarious.

I don't know why I find this so funny.

Get It Together, Lady!

     Alternate title: Why I Suck At Life.  So, I am in a full on shame spiral these days.  Overwhelmed doesn't even do it justice.  I feel like there's so much crap that I need to be doing, and I'm not getting anything done.  And I don't mean "I really should wash those baseboards" kind of stuff.  I'm talking therapies, educational needs, disability services...and those baseboards.  Skeletor has been making remarkable improvements with his speech and his behavior, but there is still so much to do.  I look at all these blogs and articles, and, where they used to inspire me to action, they now seem to exhaust me.  There is so much that I could be doing for my son and for my other children, but I can't seem to find the forward momentum to do one more thing.  And I'm not okay with this.  I'm an over-achiever.  I always have been.  And I'm not used to having to try so hard at things.  But this whole special needs parenting shebang is kicking my ass all over the place.  I truly have to get it together.  Because I can do better. 

How I feel about life, right now.

Inner Turmoil!

     ***Update/Prologue/Maybe It's an Epilogue Since I Wrote It Last***

     (Kimberly at All Work And No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something suggested that I link this up to her Secret Mommyhood Confession Saturday.  And so I am.  Because one does not dismiss a suggestion from such an illustrious lady.  That would be like turning down a cup of tea with the Queen of England.  Queen of Canada?)

    Today I took young Master Skeletor to a psychological evaluation at the hands of the State in order to see if he qualifies for SSI.  (SSI means Social Security something that starts with I, for those of you who are just not as informed as I am.)  As I'm unable to work full time hours while simultaneously preventing my son from laying waste to entire cityscapes, this extra cashflow each month would be greatly appreciated.  And thus ends the portion of this post where I attempt to justify my family's suckling at the government's teat.  Or suckling attempts.  Attempted suckling.  Whatever, point being is we went to a doctor's appointment today where, unlike any other place or time, we kind of wanted our child to be on his worst behavior.  Maybe that's putting it wrong.  More autistic-y?  Ugh, now I've probably offended.  We wanted the full scope of his condition to be shown so that the doctor could make an informed decision about our child's need for SSI.  (Whew, finally spit it out.)  The evaluation went very well, but during the course of the appointment, I grew very confused.  The doctor was giving Skeletor all sorts of tests and other official thingamabobs, and the kid was blowing them out of the water.  The doctor paused mid-question to inform me that "he's sharp!"  Which placed me in such a strange predicament.  There I was being all super proud of my clearly genetically enhanced child, while at the same time hoping that my son's performance on this test wouldn't negate his receiving the SSI benefits that we so desperately need.  Now I feel all guilty.  And dirty.  I'm going to go take a shower, and try to wash off my shame.

Please, sir, may I have some more?  (This is how I felt today.)

Victory Shriek!

     As some of you may know, when my kids started back to school recently, I was terrified of how my dear, sweet Skeletor was going to fare in kindergarten.  I didn't know if the more structured environment would make his behavior better or worse.  I didn't know if we made the right decision by having him attend resource classes for part of the day.  And, most of all, I had absolutely no idea whether he would be able to function academically.  Because, as everyone who knows him can attest, the boy has plenty of information in his head, but getting him to let it out at the appropriate time is the hard part.  Well, I still have plenty of fears, but look at his test from this past Friday!  Say, what?!  That's right; my boy made a 100!  You'll have to excuse me now.  I'm off to walk around and gloat.

Yes, this is the worst scan ever, but I'm tired.
He correctly identified all that jazz up there!  Yeah, boy!

I'm Freaking Out: IEP Edition

     In a little over a week, we will be having Skeletor's first IEP meeting of the school year.  And I am FREAKING OUT!  This is how I feel, right now.  Or, rather, right meow.  Skeletor was in Pre-K at the same school last year, and we had no problems whatsoever.  (I don't even know if that's really a word.  It doesn't look like a word.  I'm freaking out!)  The main cause of my spazz attack is kind of weird.  I don't know what to request.  I spoke to his Pre-K teacher, the teacher's assistant, and his speech therapist on a near daily basis, so I never really had to ask for something to be put in the IEP.  We all just kind of figured things out together.  You know, all go with the flow and loosy goosy-like.  But because my dear, sweet, precious, angel baby is in Kindergarten this year, I'm not in his classroom as much.  Which makes this IEP meeting seem so much more important...and scary.  Also, it's time to get down to the nitty gritty with this whole "formal education" business.  So, obviously I should have lots of things to put into the IEP to make Skeletor's school year go as smoothly as possible, right?  Except I don't.  I have two things on my list of demands: I want to walk him to class every morning so he doesn't end up hiding under a bench somewhere after he has touched each block on the wall that happens to be at his eye level.  And I want him to use the smaller Handwriting Without Tears pencils.  That is the entirety of my demand list.  I would make a terrible hostage taker.  So, I rambled all that, to ask this: What kind of things should I ask to put in his IEP?  I know, I know.  Every child is a perfect, unique snowflake and stuff.  But if anyone would like to help a sister out by maybe telling me some examples of things you have requested in your IEP's so I can get an idea of what I'm doing, that would be super sweet.  Because I am lost in the sauce, and freaking out.

The Special Needs Parenting Drinking Game

     Just in time for the holidays, I present to you the special needs parenting drinking game.  Should you choose to actually play this beast, I will not be held legally or morally responsible for your alcohol poisoning related ER visit.  As my son has an autism spectrum disorder, a lot of the rules of the game are based on that.  But, from what I'm hearing, they're relevant to a lot of SN parents.  A big thanks to the lovely Elle at Call Me Momah for giving me the idea.  She's a hoot and a holler, so I suggest you go visit her immediately.  (Well, read this post first, please.  That would be very cool of you.) 

 

The Special Needs Parenting Drinking Game

• Drink every time your child breaks something.  Finish your drink if he breaks something of great sentimental value.
• Do a shot each time you take your child to Speech Therapy, Occupational Therapy, Physical Therapy, Behavioral Therapy, or any other kind of therapy.
• Drink every time your insurance won't cover an intervention.  Finish your drink if it will.  (Celebration time!)
• Do a shot every time Jenny McCarthy says something stupid or offensive.  Do two shots if it involves showing her boobies.
• Drink every time someone says so-and-so "was just like that when he was younger, and he's fine now."  Finish your drink if the person who says this is a relative.
• Do a shot every time your school system vetoes an intervention.
• Drink every time someone says, "But he looks normal."
• Drink every time a doctor ignores your concerns.
• Drink for every referral you get.
• Finish your drink every time you have to call your child's principal.
• Do a shot every time someone calls your kid weird.  Do another shot for each violent demise you imagine for the person who calls your kid weird.
• Drink every time your child reaches a hard-won milestone.  Finish your drink every time your child has a setback.
• Drink every time your child gets overstimulated.
• Drink every time your child is understimulated.
• Drink every time your child starts stimming.
• Do a shot every time you stay home from an event or family gathering rather than deal with the meltdown that is sure to follow.
• Drink every time your kid wakes up in the middle of the night.
• Drink every time your kid wets the bed.  Finish your drink if he wets your bed.
• Do a shot every time your kid has a meltdown.  Hell, take two shots.
• Drink every time your child eats chicken nuggets.  Finish your drink if he decides he no longer likes chicken nuggets.  Do a shot if he demonstrates this displeasure by throwing the chicken nuggets against a wall.
• Drink every time your child screams.  Finish your drink if the scream is coming from one of your neurotypical kids.  Do a shot if you're the one screaming.
• Drink every time your child refuses to let you cut his toenails, wash his hair, brush his teeth, etc.
• Drink every time your child plays in the sink.  Finish your drink if he has incorporated a box of tampons into his sink play.  (Thanks to Kimberly at All Work And No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something for that one!)
• Drink every time your child injures himself, someone else, or you.  Finish your drink if there's bloodshed.  Do a shot if the injury requires an ER visit.
• Drink every time he cries.  Finish your drink every time you cry.
• Drink every time you leave a store because of one of your child's meltdowns.  Finish your drink if you stay in the store for the duration of the meltdown.  Do a shot if someone calls children's services on you.
• Drink every time you watch a certain t.v. show for the billionth time.  Finish your drink every time your child has a conversation with you based entirely on said show.
• Drink every time your child refuses to go to school.  Finish your drink when he refuses to leave school.
• Chug for five seconds when your child learns to unlock the front door.
• Drink every time your child strips naked.
• Drink every time your child's feces ends up somewhere other than the toilet.
• Drink every time you replace your bathroom tile.
• Drink every time your child refuses to wear an article of clothing because it is itchy, scratchy, too tight, feels funny, etc.
• Drink every time your child dismantles a brand new toy, and then plays with just one piece.
• Drink every time someone says IEP, annual goals, data, or vaccinate.
• Drink every time you say an acronym.

     Well, there you have it.  Feel free to let me know any rules that I've missed in the comments section.  If you have been playing along as you read this, then you are completely schwilly by now.  Go to bed.  You're a mess.  And, no, I won't hold your hair for you while you puke.  I'm mean like that.    

Shiva, The Destroyer Of Worlds

     Things my son, Skeletor, did within the space of three hours.  (Can you say rapidly ballooning aneurysm?  Good!  I knew you could!)

1. Pulled every book (and we have quite a few) off of the bookshelf.  He then flipped said bookshelf over, and proceeded to jump up and down on the back of it.  He reminded me of Donkey Kong.
2. Poured an entire cup of juice on his bed.  Not an accident.
3. Used the dish sprayer thingy in the sink to give the kitchen a bath.  Toaster included.
4. Made "potions" in my set of olden-timey, glass medicine bottles  The "potion" included tooth paste.  Clearly it needed to be poured everywhere.
5. Broke another leg off of the end table in the living room.  It was already propped against the wall on just three legs.  It is now beyond propping. 
6. Made another "potion" in the bathroom sink.  This "potion" was made by running water over a bunch of markers to make pretty colors.  I'm sure you can imagine what happened.
7. Poured another cup of juice onto the kitchen table.  He then stripped completely naked, and rolled around in the puddle.
8. Fell from his perch on the back of a recliner.  Now has a hellacious shiner.
9. Broke his learner guitar over his sister's leg.  In his defense, he seemed to be channeling the spirit of Kurt Cobain, and she was merely a casualty of the mojo.  It's a good lesson to learn early, really.  Never get in the way of rock.  You might bleed.

Skeletors can't fly.

      I have nothing else to say.  I'm pretty sure this list speaks for itself.  I forget, why don't I binge drink?

I Should Probably Feel Bad About This...

     So, I still feel utterly craptastic.  Not Man Sick, mind you, but still pretty terrible.  And, just for shits and giggles, I also have an ear infection to go along with my Funk.  Yay, good times!  Skeletor is also still sick, which definitely puts a damper on any afore-mentioned good times.  Also for shits and giggles, we are in the middle of trying to implement some ABA awesomeness in our house.  All of this equals super cranky pandas.  Because it's only been a month or so since we got an official diagnosis of autism, we're still in limbo in regards to all the behavioral therapies we need.  (Skeletor has been receiving speech and occupational therapy for over a year now, so we're lucky in that respect.)  We live in a medium sized town, almost smack in the middle of two major cities.  Unfortunately, those two major cities are at least an hour away.  And those two major cities seem to be the only places where we can receive the ABA therapy.  Hence the long waiting lists.  Which leads me to the thing that I should probably feel bad about.  I'm definitely no doctor or therapist, but I can read.  (I know you're shocked.  You should sit down if you are feeling light-headed.)  So, since we're going to be waiting a bit, I've been reading up on ABA.  The somewhat basic gist being you reward good behavior, and ignore bad behavior (within reason.)  And this is what I have started doing.  And Skeletor does not like it one little bit.  In fact, if he knew how to make fire, he would definitely set all of my autism books ablaze.  Despite all of the extra stress (which I know will pay off in the long run,) I have to admit that I got a bit of a chuckle earlier.  As Skeletor sat on the kitchen floor howling and gnashing his teeth because I had the audacity to pick up his toys, it occurred to me.  That is exactly how I feel almost every minute of every day.  Only I don't get to say it.  I don't get to throw things and scream and hit people (other than Captain Gingerbeard, but he's got a sassy mouth.)  And I know that I don't get to do these things because I'm a grown-up...allegedly.  I'm the mommy.  It's my job to not lose my temper.  And although Skeletor is to be granted a little bit of leeway due to the autism, he still has to be taught how to behave, no matter how long it takes.  But hearing him yell out his frustrations today did bring me a bit of levity.  It was kind of good to know somebody else felt the same way I do.  Which may or may not curse me to the deepest, darkest pits.  Aw, crap.  The child just walked up behind me, and ripped the back of my shirt.  Tra-la-la, ignoring it.  I do hope the Captain wasn't particularly fond of it.  I borrowed it from him.

Me.

EEG, Consider Yourself Dominated.

     Today, Skeletor and I undertook the long and arduous journey that is driving to Nashville.  Nashville is about two and a half hours from our house, making this the longest road trip that the little man has ever been on, excluding ones made before he was old enough to do anything but sleep, cry, and poop the whole time.  We took it upon ourselves to make this trip because Skeletor was participating in an autism study at the Vanderbilt Kennedy Center.  I'm not going to lie to you people.  I was not expecting a very good day.  Let me clarify, I was expecting hellfire and damnation and fleeing citizens attempting to escape the wrath of Skeletor's bilious rage.  But, lo and behold, this entire day went by without one single meltdown.  And, I would like to add, we don't have any fancy DVD players in our car, so it was FM radio the whole way.  Frankly, the whole thing was just miraculous!  Within five minutes of our arrival, the researchers had Skeletor take an IQ test, which he did surprisingly well on.  This was our first formal IQ test, so naturally I am now going to walk around absolutely certain that my son is a genius.  It's genetic, so it was to be expected.  Then they did the EEG, of which Skeletor rocked off the proverbial socks.  Seriously, he straight dominated that EEG, even though they threw us a curveball when the actual EEG cap was damp.  Other than that, he went all Conan the Barbarian on that test.  If that EEG was a human being, Skeletor would have crushed his enemy, seen it driven before him, and heard the lamentations of its women.  That is how harcore my little man was during his EEG.  I am one proud mama!

Skeletor making the EEG his beotch.

He got to pick out two toys.  As you can see,
I did not pick the name 'Skeletor' randomly.

Marvin The Mummy Gets An EEG!

     Skeletor has to get an EEG later this week.  As some of you know, Skeletor is obsessed with all things Halloween.  (Except the candy, oddly enough.  I always have to trick-or-treat for him.  And I assure you, nobody believes that I have another kid who needs candy.  I can still feel their judge-y eyeballs!)  In the hopes of making this process as painless as possible, I made the little man a story about a mummy who gets an EEG, too.  Fingers crossed that it works! 

Read "Marvin'>http://www.britely.com/sanstrousers/marvin-the-mummy-gets-an-eeg-3">Marvin The Mummy Gets An EEG!" by Kristina'>http://www.britely.com/sanstrousers">Kristina Richardson at Britelyhttp://www.britely.com/">Britely>!

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.

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.