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.

Man Sick

     I wanted to write this post for the last week or so, but propriety dictated that I wait until after Father's Day to do so.  And now, the very next day, I would like to talk to you folks about a little something called "Man Sick."  Our germ infested sweet children were recently sick with the Funk.  Not the good, shake your groove thing kind of Funk either.  I'm talking about the sore throat, snotty nose, chest congestion, body aches, upset tummy, wanna punch people in the face kind of Funk.  You would think sickly little kids roaming around your house and moaning for juice like a zombie does for brains would be the worst.  You would be wrong.  The worst possible outcome of any sort of Outbreak situation is for the man of the house to become infected, too.  And, of course, Captain Gingerbeard fell victim to the dreaded Funk.  May God have mercy on our souls.
     When I informed the Captain that he had clearly contracted a serious case of Man Sick, he assumed that I meant that he wasn't sick at all.  That is not the case.  Being Man Sick does not mean that he does not have an actual diagnosable medical condition.  It does, however, mean that what ever ails him is obviously the worst case of a cold, the flu, gas, heartburn, or hemorrhoids that has ever effected a human in the history of the world.  Maybe some form of primate suffered worse than he back in the days of yore, but no modern man has ever been stricken with such a horrific illness.  And he is not afraid to tell the world of his woes.  (Vocalization is one of the hallmark symptoms of Man Sick.)
     Now, I know the Captain is sick.  I know this because the bastard infected me, as well.  (Sharing is caring, after all.)  But, you know what else I know?  I know that during the course of my illness I have also been washing dishes, cooking meals, bathing kids, cleaning the house, and getting up at stupid o'clock every day when the little ones pop out of bed.  And that is the difference between Man Sick and normal sick.  Somebody has to be the grown-up when everyone in the house is ill.  And you can bet your sweet ass it sure isn't going to be the one infected with Man Sick.

P.S. I still love you, Captain Gingerbeard.  But I had to tell my story!

Artist's rendering of Captain Gingerbeard in the throes of Man Sick.