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?

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.

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.

Even His Dreams Are Different

A sweet, sleeping Skeletor.

     Last night, as usual, Skeletor burst into our room around two in the morning, and jumped headlong into bed with us.  This is so normal, neither I nor Captain Gingerbeard even moved.  However, something kind of special happened this morning when Skeletor woke up.  He opened his eyes, yawned and proceeded to tell me about the nightmare he had.  He described his sisters as zombies, skeletons sitting in chairs and having tea parties, and a whole monster house.  When he finished his story, I did my best caring, consoling mommy routine. 

     "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry you had a bad dream," I said, as I caressed his hair lovingly.

     But then I looked more closely at his face.  He was smiling.  He was more than smiling, even, he was grinning from ear to ear.  Because my child was not describing a nightmare.  He was describing what seemed to be one of the best dreams of his life.  And, I was touched that he wanted to share it with me, as best he could.

      We are new to this whole crazy world of developmental disorders and doctors and therapists.  But, we are learning.  In fact, we pretty much learn something new about our son and his condition every day.  But, today's little peek into Skeletor's world seemed even more intimate than usual.  I can't explain it.  I can't put it into words.  All I can say is that I am thankful for that shared moment with my son this morning.  Even though he pushed his tiny, Flinstone feet into my back all night long.

There's Blood Everywhere!!!

   Ok, all of the blood has been cleaned up as of this posting.  But, for a little while there, it looked like we were filming 'Carrie' in my bedroom.  Skeletor, who has been particularly cantankerous this past week, was having himself a good, old fashioned meltdown.  To emphasize some point (probably about how much I sucked or something; he was nonverbal at this point,) he slammed my bedroom door, knocking off my super awesome and not at all ironic 'Saved By The Bell' calendar.  Not only was this a tragedy due to damages inflicted on my priceless $17 calendar, but Skeletor then proceeded to run angrily back into my room, stomping directly on the tack that was used to hold up said awesome calendar.  Apparently, his tiny, little Flinstone feet are extremely vascular, because the wound (yes, I'm calling it a wound; it was that hardcore) just kept leaking blood all over the damn place.  To make matters worse, Skeletor not only refuses to be comforted when he gets a booboo, but he also has issues with his feet.  (I have to cut his toenails while he's sleeping.)  So, needless to say, he was not down with my trying to staunch the blood loss.  Or render any aid whatsoever.  It broke my heart, but I had to just sit near him, and watch him scratch at the cut until the bleeding finally stopped.  But, holy of holies, the pediatric developmental disorders gods (that totally exist) smiled on us!  He actually agreed to get into the bathtub and wash all the blood and germs off of his pissed off little body.  Hooray for small favors!  So, I guess my point is, no matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.  Also, I have a kick-ass 'Saved By The Bell' calendar.  Next month is Dustin Diamond!

I Try Not To Think About It

     While I am typing this, there is a small tornado raging its way around my living room.  His name is Skeletor, and woe be to the objects/people that have the misfortune of landing in his path.  Normally when he gets into a "Skeletor SMAAAASH" mode, I kind of hover on the edge of the kill zone.  You know, to ensure that none of my valuables or other children get broken.  Tonight it's different, though.  This week has been a lot harder than usual.  Instead of a few meltdowns here and there, we have been at full-blown Chernobyl level all freaking week.  I'm sure it's because of the change in schedule with being off a week for spring break.  But, whatevers, point being is that he is straight up leveling the house, and I just don't think I can do it. 
     My heart hurts.  My head hurts.  I'm so angry and sad and frustrated and confused and just...impotent.  Completely useless.  Nothing that I do is going to comfort my child until he has run out of energy enough to fall on the ground.  At least once a day, bare minimum, I feel like the shittiest parent who ever had the audacity to breed.  I feel like his condition is my fault.  I shouldn't have gone to Iraq when he was so young.  I should have noticed something was wrong sooner when I got home.  I shouldn't have the family history of autism and psychosis and all that fun stuff (because I totally have control over that, right?)  And all of these thoughts are just the ones that I have when I actually allow myself to admit that parenting this small child is hard.  But, when I think about the future it feels like my entire body is shutting down from the fear.
     I try not to think about what Skeletor's life will be like as he gets older.  I just do the best I can by him on each particular day.  That's all I can do.  But, as his first appointment with the developmental disorders clinic approaches, I'm thinking about it more and more.  And it's terrifying.  What if he can't function in society?  What if he can't have a job or a girlfriend?  What if he never has a friend?  What if his meltdowns become more violent as he gets older...and bigger?  What if, what if, what if?  It's enough to make you vomit from anxiety.
     But, that's enough feeling sorry for myself, I reckon.  I guess I'm going to suck it up, and go be with my son until this has passed.  If it ever does.

The Origins of Skeletor: My Child is Not Ted Bundy

     So, once upon a time, there was this girl who thought it would be a super amazeballs idea to join the army even though she was the mother of small kids.  I know, she's clearly deranged.  Anyways, her husband was also in the military and was quite supportive of the girl's aspirations.  Thusly, she went and kicked all kinds of ass at being in basic training and, pretty much, life in general.  When she got home from all her high speed medic training, she was almost immediately sent to New Jersey in the dead of winter to prepare for a tour in Iraq.  (Don't worry.  She didn't understand why she was mobilizing for the desert while in New Jersey, either.) 
     Cut to one year later.  The girl comes home from the desert.  She's kind of tan, a little skinnier, and there's sand in EVERYTHING.  She knows that things are going to be difficult with her children.  The army briefed her to death on it.  However, all those briefs didn't mean bupkiss until she was actually standing face to face with the blank, staring faces of her loving ambivalent kids.  Long story short, they quickly came around, and loved their mommy, and everything was peachy.  Except for the little one. 
     The little one, Skeletor, was just a wee, little baby when his mommy left.  He was about two and a half when she returned.  So, she attributed his complete lack of engagement with her to the fact that he just didn't remember who she was.  That's also what she blamed on his violent fits of rage.  She didn't think anything about his obsession with skeletons because, let's be real, skeletons and bones and such are awesome.  It wasn't until his daycare teacher pointed out he didn't know anyone in the class by name or ever play or talk to any of the other children, that the mommy admitted something was wrong.  They spent nearly two years bouncing around from one doctor to another until finally they found one who would listen.  Unfortunately, while he agreed with the probable diagnosis of autism, he also inadvertently aligned Skeletor with a serial killer.
     As Skeletor and his mother were leaving from their appointment with this child psychologist, the man warned our heroine that she must be very careful with her son around animals.  He said because Skeletor was so fascinated with bones, that it wouldn't be unusual for him to want to take them apart.  TAKE APART THE ANIMALS.  "Um, exsqueeze me?" said the girl.  "Isn't that how sociopaths start out?  Are you saying my son is a sociopath?  He's four!  Are you saying he's like Ted Bundy?  Is that what you're saying?  I mean I know he's handsome like Bundy, but that's where I draw the line in the comparison.  You're crazy!  And stupid!  You wanna fight?!"
     Luckily, that was the last time the girl and Skeletor ever saw that man.  They went to a doctor who was very understanding and did not liken Skeletor's obsessions to that of a serial killing monster's.  They are now just a few weeks away from their appointment at a Pediatric Developmental Disorder clinic.  Hopefully (and probably), nobody there will accuse Skeletor of such homicidal tendencies.  Or else, his mommy may have to cut somebody.