My Whac-A-Mole Life: parenting   

A Memo To Our New Puppy

Dear Puppy,

Blame it on the timing. 

A few weeks before we met you, after passing me our weary, 14-year-old dog on her leash, the vet handed me a paperback booklet with the title, A Final Act of Caring. No need to go into the details, but that pretty much translates into, “it’s time to make sure that all your doggy affairs are in order.”

The sepia tone is intended to
emulate an "in memoriam" effect
(and hopefully mask the amount of

excess fur on her Cowgirl Dora bed).
Not too long after that, late in the night, I hugged that dear, old dog to sleep for good. I know it sounds callous, but it was quick, painless (for her, at least) and I swear her eyes emitted gratitude. An inoperable bladder tumor is no fun, and she had been moping around looking – well – depressed. An ultrasound confirmed her bleak, unsustainable status. It wasn’t easy, but it was time.

The next morning we had to break the news to the kids, and hope that our gentle, prescient warnings and weeks of intentionally staged moments of bonding would help ease the shock (it didn't).

It should come as no surprise that page 23 of A Final Act of Caring wisely warns: “Although it may be tempting to quickly get another pet, this is generally not a good idea.”

So naturally, against all better judgment, we ignored that advice, and you bet we were the first ones in the door at our nearest Humane Society animal shelter THAT VERY SAME DAY!

Sometimes I Can't Sleep

Sometimes I can't sleep.

I can't even blame it on the kids this time. It's not that I'm not tired; I'm beyond exhausted. I haven't slept properly consecutively since around 2000, despite my habit of leaping into the bed like a gold-medal gymnast by 8 pm.

When I do sleep, nothing - and I mean NOTHING - can wake me. I have slept through tornado watches; mysterious fire alarm battery chirps (come on, it happen to everyone); and malfunctioning burglar alarms. It's disconcerting actually. Lest you think I'm well rested, bear in mind that this only occurs in spurts...and I'm convinced I need many more hours of sleep than the average person. (Please do remember that there's nothing "average" about my whac-a-mole life!)

But nights like this one are different. A few hours ago, I battled to keep my eyes open just to make it through the afternoon, and now they won't close.

Instead, the Doppler Radar inside my brain - unfettered by mundane activities like making lunches and shuttling carpools - blips and twirls. I fret that my sweet baby girl sprawled out in bed next to me is almost my size - practically a third adult in the bed (yes, my bed because at least I know she's safe). I wonder if her nightly visits will ever cease...and whether she'll ever sleep under any roof but my own.

I Lost Time


I logged out for a few minutes...and then it was June. I try to remember something remarkable that's happened since then, but really, I don't know where I've been or what I've been doing.

Have you ever seen Primal Fear? It seems like your garden-variety legal thriller circa 1996, but it sticks. Ed Norton steals the movie playing Aaron, a naive altar boy, accused of the violent murder of the Archbishop, who claims to have no memory of the incident since he "lost time." But while Aaron checked out, Roy - one of Aaron's multiple personalities - apparently took over his body. We see that Roy is a violent sociopath who proudly admits to the murder. (If you haven't seen it, it's an excellent film and one of the original gotchas...but that's not really the point of this post.)
Image courtesy of deviantART.

Like Aaron, I feel like I lost time. No, I can't claim any alter egos - criminal or otherwise. I just mean it seems like time passed and I'm not quite sure where it all went. (NOTE TO SELF: If I ever do take on another personality, it would be nice if she would handle the laundry and cooking.) 

It's like when you plan to play "just one game" of Candy Crush and suddenly it's midnight. Or you open up Pinterest. Or when you blink and your kid is a teenager...and you're in your forties. 

As we age, we realize that while time seemed to pass uber-slowly when we were young (especially during Calculus class), it zooms right by once you're older. All those little, old ladies who smugly told us to "enjoy it; it goes by so fast" when they saw us balancing screaming toddlers, strollers and diaper bags while double-fisting coffees - well, turns out they were right. (I still stand by my sleep-deprived, indignant glares, though.)

So, I lost time. I can't really account for it or explain it by citing anything remarkable that's happened.

Checklists slowly got checked. Or re-prioritized. Or forgotten.

No photos have been printed and put in albums; the laundry pile remains life-sized; the paper stacks have not shrunk.

The WHATIFs Grow Up

The whatifs  have a way of sneaking up on us, edging their way in through cracks in the veneer.

We ward them off with a smile on our face; with sleeping pills; with best-laid plans.

Some of us, vulnerable to anxiety's Machiavellian maneuvers, have learned to ignore the whatifs, or rather deny them. We stay busy to hide from them. We run. We play. Or we use exhaustion as a means of defense (they can't attack while we sleep).

Still, the whatifs  are patient - content to lie in wait, satisfied knowing they soon will have the chance to stretch their tentacles, regenerate and multiply.

A movie theater shooting. A marathon bombing. A child abused by a teacher. An autistic girl found face-down in a lake. A friend diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer.

Each of these tears down our defenses and allows the whatifs to burrow in...stronger, scarier, realer.

Shel Silverstein/Where The Sidewalk Ends
The night before a school camping trip, my son asks, "Whatif  I sleepwalk into the cave and get eaten by a bear or lost forever?" What an outlandish whatif,  I think, instantly realizing that MY whatifs once were outlandish, too. Are they still?

It's much harder to combat whatifs when they've become so real.

The whatifs  no longer are about my own mortality or suffering. They dance around the people I love. Whatif  something endangers them? Or prevents me from protecting them? How can I shield my nonverbal daughter from a predatory world? Whatif  my son doesn't make it to the hospital in time when his shunt fails? Whatif  I abandon them, or rather, WHEN I abandon them in death? What will happen then?

She Talks Funny

My Child Is Not Your 'Teachable Moment'

We're perched at a rectangular, kid's-size table in the art room of an indoor play gym, and she is painting a collection of methodically selected picture print-outs. Embracing her focus and age-appropriate activity - ephemeral as it will be - I attentively respond to her endless, artistic demands like an attendant in an operating room. I don't want to break the spell.

Her word approximations erupt loudly, jumbly and jolty: "Wa du"..."On-ch"..."hep." Instinctively, I know to present water for her paintbrush; fresh, orange paint; and the help she wants un-sticking her painted papers - all the while, rewarding and validating my autistic, apraxic child's emerging language and articulation.

A younger boy enters, maybe around 4 or 5, his mom by his side. (I know this because be calls her "mom" with the startlingly perfect clarity and tone that sucker-punches me every time. It shouldn't surprise me to hear children half her age orating like rock stars, but somehow it still does.)

The One With The Bad Metaphor (In Which I Compare Special Needs Parenting to Candy Crush)

Forrest Gump famously compared life to a box of chocolates. Well, less famously and with a much longer, convoluted explanation, I'm telling you that special needs parenting is like a game of Candy Crush.

Candy Crush Saga, for the uninitiated, is your basic "match three" game available on Facebook, the web, iDevices, Droids and probably outer space. It has a few twists, however, that have managed to capture the zeitgeist of low-tech gamers and harbored addiction in many circles (See Top 10 Signs You and Your Friends are Addicted to Candy Crush).

As I wait the requisite 30 minutes for a new "life," I pontificate on how the developers over at King.com captured special needs parenting in these colorful, little candy wrappers.

So you get these five lives and you are trying to complete levels with specific challenges and limited moves available. When you run out of moves before achieving your goal, you lose a life. You can wait for a new one; buy one (no way); or ask your friends to help.

It's damn hard doing this alone. While it can be hard to ask for help sometimes - you don't want to impose; they won't understand; you just asked yesterday - this stuff is nearly impossible without a village (see Meditation for an Autism Mom). The best of friends know you are struggling. They send "life" before you have to ask. Maybe it's in the form of a funny text, or a quick call, or a night out...but it's extremely re-energizing, especially if you've been having a particularly tough, level 65 kind of week.

Some people (I've noticed it's mostly men, incidentally) refuse to connect their game to Facebook. Are they ashamed? Do they prefer keeping things private? Perhaps they don't want to deal with any questions or public scrutiny. Regardless, they will not be able to ask anyone for help and they will, perhaps even unknowingly, face increased frustration as they run out of life (or end up spending lots of in-app purchase money). 

Either way, Candy Crush Saga requires lots of attention. Our other games miss us. Scramble With Friends actually resigned a few games on our account, abandoned.  "What happened to you," our friends ask? Well, I miss my old self too, but let's face it, the Candy owns me now. It's not better. It's not necessarily worse. It's just different.

It might be more demanding than some games (although have you ever had to take care of a digital fish tank it or pet shop? Just sayin'), but did you know that every seventh person in Hong Kong plays Candy Crush? Google it. If it's that prevalent, perhaps we should spend more energy on tolerance and inclusion, rather than trying to fight it.

The sweets get ugly sometimes, I know. Players tend to curse, gasp, misbehave and might even throw an iPad across the room. OF COURSE we know that's not appropriate behavior, but sometimes our frustrations get the better of us. Perhaps even more so when our candy has left us sleep-deprived, gluten-dependent and speechless.

On the game's level map, we see all our friends' avatars way, way, ahead of us. We notice this when we're stuck on a particularly irritating level. We wonder, how did they get so far? Was it easier for them? Did the Candy Crush gods give them more color bombs? We must catch up!

We must remember to control that jealousy and resentment. We can't ever know what's going on behind closed doors. Maybe it's because they are up all night with a reckless, child insomniac. Maybe they spent lots of money and are now bankrupt. Maybe they've been playing for a very long time. Our level can be just as fulfilling, even if it's not exactly what you expected. Holland has windmills...and tulips!


As you do master a level, the euphoria can be short-lived because there's always another level ahead! New, unexpected challenges come out of nowhere. Exploding chocolate? Barriers? I thought I had this all figured out!
Sad Heart. Send Lives!
Well, just like those futile times when you only have a few moves left and you know you're not going to make it, you still have to slide those candies around and ride it out. You'll get re-energized and try again. Maybe in 30 minutes. Maybe tomorrow. 

Don't fight it. Yes, there are plenty of people out there who have never discovered Candy Crush (gasp). Or they haven't been lured into its frustratingly satisfying lair. Maybe they're content with their non-dependent lives, and they tell us in superior tones, "I'll just stick with Bejeweled, thank you very much."

True, our Candy Crush existence might be grueling at times, but I like to think we're better for it. We have demonstrated strategy, perseverance, tolerance and good humor.

We appreciate the sweet stuff so much more when it's that harder to attain. We celebrate every small success - the jelly is gone! - and know that they truly can never, ever understand unless they're right there in the candy trenches with us.
Nom nom nom! 


***So, how many of you think I need a Candyvention right around now?

A Broken Keurig, Instant Grits & Other Travesties: A Morality Tale


At its heart, autism is a communications disorder. The DSM-IV checklist lists "qualitative impairments in communication" as a diagnostic criterion. 

My daughter? Check. Plus.

She also has - by anyone's diagnostic standards - a voracious appetite. I wouldn't call her a "picky eater" (tree bark, anyone?), but she can be fickle and demanding at times. Girlfriend knows what she wants.

So, chasing her into the kitchen yesterday, I found her ripping open a package of instant grits. (I didn't even know we had that!) Ever self-sufficient, she proceeded to dump it into a disposable, hot cup and pivoted around to, apparently, run hot water through the Keurig to complete her snack.

I know it sounds like she's an independent, little chef, but we do not allow her to operate anything in the kitchen alone. We know better. So does she!

What she didn't know was that our beloved Keurig didn't work anymore (boo hoo!), and I had removed it to try and return it. 

I wish I could have captured the look on her face. The Keurig might possibly be the most important, frequented appliance in the house. Poof! It was gone!

What would your 8-year-old do? I imagine, at this point, many would call for Mom (I was standing three feet away), ask where the machine went, demand help.

I watched with curiosity. Ever resourceful and independent, my daughter simply turned to the refrigerator and  filled the cup with water from the dispenser.

Of course, now her grits are ice cold (as well as completely over-saturated, but that's besides the point). 

Now, does she ask for help? Uh uh. Oh, she's very frustrated, yelling a little, but she just decides to move on to the microwave - where our story must end with an angry intervention. No, my autistic 8-year-old is not allowed to use the microwave.

The whole incident reminded me of my years-ago Floortime training...learning to create a "circle of communication," a reciprocal, back-and-forth interaction. 

Nope, not a single circle of communication going on here, but there were numerous opportunities to create them.

One Floortime strategy is to engage a hard-to-reach child using a "playful obstruction." Do something that will get their attention! Wear an unexpected, silly hat. Join the child while they are lining up cars, and then make the cars crash. Any resulting eye contact, interaction or response to the action counts toward your Circle.

No hot water? No coffee? You certainly have my attention! 

Yet, communicating with me to help her solve her problem didn't even occur to her. 

While she's come a long way, communication always will be hard for her. She's severely apraxic, so the actual act of speaking clearly is a huge obstacle for her. Sign language and augmentative communication devices like her iPad offer wonderful alternatives, and I am grateful every day for them. However, they only work when a person is motivated and interested in communicating. 

Wouldn't you agree that communicating and interacting with me to solve her devastating, instant-grits problem was the most likely, obvious and best course of action? 

Unfortunately, for her, it also was the hardest. 

Holiday Gift Guide

Shhh. I am sharing this retroactively. I realize you probably haven't noticed (and I'm foolish to point it out) but my blog feels pretty time-worn at the moment. Let's imagine it on vacation, maybe on a breezy beach with mai tais in hand.

Still, December looks so very lonely in the timeline. So for the record, I did post in the blogosphere in December. Just not here. Problem now corrected. 

Follow this link for your outdated, irrelevant BUT STILL HIGHLY COMPELLING story about gifting on your winter holiday of choice. Actually, er, who doesn't want to start planning for next Christmas, right? Or perhaps for your child's birthday?



Ten Things I Learned From Pop Music in 2012

My family spends lots of time on the road driving to/from schools, therapies, crazyland (see Tales From the Minivan). We listen to hand-picked CDs, yes, but the kids also really like current, pop music. We treat ourselves to commercial-free, satellite radio, and we definitely get our money's worth.

The thing is, however, while my daughter and I pretty much just dig the tunes and belt out (with varying degrees of accuracy and success) whatever words we think we hear, my analytic son - so I've learned - listens and thinks about the ACTUAL LYRICS. And, naturally, he has follow-up questions. Many of them.

As a result, I've taken "Last Friday Night" out of the mix for good. As another result (and courtesy of an awesome writing prompt from Stasha and company) you get this list. Happy Monday!


10 THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM POP MUSIC IN 2012:

1. Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.) is a super-fun song...but much less fun once you have to explain the lyrics to an 11-year-old: "menage a trois? Hmm, I think she's saying a bunch to draw or I munched crudite ... OH LOOK, Gangnam Style is on. Let's turn it up now."
2. Songs are much better when no one can understand a word. All hail Gangnam Style.
3. We're sad to hear about Kelly Clarkson's divorce. You know, because "the bed feels warmer, sleeping here alone." Her husband is no longer sleeping at home. Obviously. Stronger (What Doesn't Kill You).
4. Flippant songs can be exhausting. Who knew that We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together would require hours of follow-up discussion?
    • Why someone would write such a mean song
    • Breakups in general and why they might not be friendly
    • Well, if they weren't married, why would she not understand if he was seeing other people. Isn't that the definition of dating?
    • Why would you date exclusively but not get married?
    • Well, then why would he want to get back together?
    • You're right, "no" does mean "no," but...
    • And so on...
5. Girls can be so silly. Just pick up the phone and call him already. Or text him. Or move on. Sheesh! (See Call Me Maybe and Brokenhearted).
6. Adam Levine doesn't sound very reliable. Glad he didn't say "stick a needle in my eye too"...because if he's already said it a million times, he's broken lots of promises and lost credibility. Just saying. (See One More Night.)
7. Still, Maroon 5 does serve an educational purpose. They taught my children two "new" words: Payphone and Jagger.
8. Nicki Minaj sings a very cool song about aliens: Starships. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  (Please please please don't Google the lyrics!)
9. Against all odds, I've gained an appreciation for the grating tracks of Kidz Bop despite (and exactly because of) lyrics like "I love to dance next to you baby" which curiously replace lyrics like "I love to make love to you baby." (See Dance Again).
10. Finally, sure We Are Young, but we're definitely OVER 21... because, you know, all that drinking and falling down and stuff.



Did I Say That? *Autism Edition*

This week's writing prompt from Mama Kat over at Mama's Losin' It was too good to pass up: Write a list of 10 things you have said to your kids that other moms might not say.

You know, those times when something comes out of your mouth with your super-serious parent voice and you suddenly realize how absurd you sound? (It was warranted, trust me, you just had to be there.) Yep, those. Oh, but I did modify the assignment a bit:
    • First, I enlisted the help of some friends - because think of how great it turned out when we collaborated on our list of -INATORS. (Plus, I didn't have to write it all myself.)
    • I narrowed the focus: Welcome to the AUTISM EDITION.
    • I didn't stop at 10. You're welcome.

SENSORY EXPLORATION (where licking emerged as a common theme)

MANAGING STIMS AND OBSESSIONS

RIGIDITY (with compassion for Glass Half Full)

  • I'm sorry I put your milk on the right side of your plate instead of the left. Stop screaming at me. - Glass Half Full
  • I'm sorry I didn't put your socks on at the same exact moment you wanted them on. Stop screaming at me. - Glass Half Full
  • I know you hate people, sweetheart. I hate them too, but they have to be dealt with. - Pancakes Gone Awry
  • I know you hate utensils, but you can't throw forks across your classroom. It's just not safe! - Glass Half Full
  • I don't care that you think it's stupid, you have to do it, anyway. Life is full of stupid things. Get used to it. -- Woulda Shoulda Coulda
  • Who ate all the bottoms out of the bag of hamburger buns? - Yeah. Good Times.

Mama’s Losin’ It FROM OUR FACEBOOK PAGE: 


Thank you to all of these contributors. Got some good ones of your own? We wanna see! Please comment and share below.

***For more autism parent humor (is that a thing?), check out: You Might Be An Autism Parent If...

Things Aren't Always What They Seem: A Lesson in Generalization

One afternoon, my boy nonchalantly relayed this story to me:
Child X is playing a game on his laptop, and Children A and B are oohing and aahing over his shoulder. My curious son joins in to watch, but Child X covers his screen and says:
"You can't watch me play. Go away."
OUCH! My bully radar soared to red alert; my fangs and talons were itching to strike. Yet, I tried to remain calm and rational. I took a breath, and reminded myself that things aren't always what they seem.

I probed a bit: What EXACTLY happened...How did that make you feel...What did your friends do/say...Why do you think he said that...Who the hell is this rotten kid anyway?

At this point, I started to get a bunch of I don't remembers followed by a Can I please just play my game now.

Between you and me, let's just agree that kids aren't so smart. How could they be? They're uneducated, totally inexperienced, and have underdeveloped, unseasoned brains with absolutely no context for their thoughts. Now, pair that fact with the idea that a number of children with autism - as well as some other neurological conditions and learning disorders - struggle with "generalization."

Generalization, as I've come to understand, is the ability to apply something you've learned across settings, circumstances and situations. A common example is: You teach a kid not to cross the street alone. Does the child understand that lesson applies to all streets or just THAT particular spot on THAT particular street? It's an extraordinarily different way of thinking.

You know what makes generalization even more challenging? Rules. Especially rules with exceptions or inexplicable, social expectations. So now, you tell him, go ahead and cross that street when the light changes. Or at the crosswalk. Or if you look both ways. Or if there's a guy wearing a yellow hat waving you over. OH MY GAH, it's so confusing!

With that mindset, a kid so easily could "disobey," get it wrong, or just meltdown at the thought of trying to keep up with all these street-crossing regulations.

How revealing it can be when children actually explain their unorthodox behavior - which, often, seems completely rational and logical in their own minds.

For example, it was driving me batty that my OCD-stricken son's hands always were wet. He was struggling with classic germ phobia, and was washing them A LOT. (I'm pretty sure patterns and rituals were involved, but he's stealthy about that.) Of course, I assumed he simply forgot to dry his dripping hands. When yelling didn't fix that, I then got him to agree that it was because he didn't think the towels were clean enough (I get that), so I fancied up his bathroom and mucked up the environment with disposable hand towels. He still dripped all over the place.

Finally, when the lights were low and the mood was right, he explained that, since our treatment plan involved restricting hand-washing, as well as limited discussing and reassuring him of cleanliness, he prefers to keep them wet because then he is sufficiently reassured that they are clean. Oooooooooh, of course.

Similarly, my friend over at Snagglebox (who just wrote a fantastic post about literal thinking) shared this anecdote:
My son tells me that he finds playing tag stressful because, "When you touch somebody else to make them 'it', technically the energy is bouncing back and forth between your bodies as you touch. So how do you know who is actually 'it' when you let go?"
Guess who probably avoids playing tag...and imagine how this would play out if he couldn't explain himself. 

Does your child also suffer from "perceived injustices" (a term I borrowed from my friend at Try Defying Gravity)? My son once spent a year snubbing a really, sweet kid (who had absolutely no idea he was being snubbed, mind you) for something quite innocent he said that my son found hurtful. He told me about it years later. And this is my verbal child!

My daughter is required to navigate the world without the ability to express herself or explain her behaviors.

We were having lunch at a particular friend's house last week for the first time in several years. My autistic daughter went all Taz on us - screaming, running around like a whirling dervish, and repeatedly asking for dessert. (I was reminded why we don't have lunch at friends' houses more often!)

However, using my parental telepathy, I finally figured out what was going on. Last time when we were at this home - maybe 3 years ago - she was served a particular cookie. Clearly, she wanted/expected that same cookie to be served again. Because - in her orderly brain that seems so chaotic to the rest of us - that's the pattern established in her memory. This house = delicious cookie dessert. That's the rule. Unfortunately, others probably just see an out-of-control kid.

Now, let's circle back to the brat bullying my son. You'll never believe what really happened. Miraculously, my little talk with my son paid off. He returned to school, and somehow "discussed" the situation with Child A and Child B. Together, they approached Child X, who apparently meant no ill will. He was simply following THE RULES.

What he said: "You can't watch me play. Go away."
What his mother had told him: "Don't let anyone you don't know use your computer or watch you work on it."

Child X (in another class) already knew Child A and Child B. He'd never formally met their other classmate - my son.

Oooooooooh, of course. See? Things aren't always what they seem.