Go to Bed!

My three year old runs our house. He is a terror when he gets in one of his moods. Not to mention the candy, cookies, cupcakes, pie, all of the holiday treats that are so readily found this time of year. So we end up with an overdramatic and hyper primadonald who is prone to tirades of enormous proportions.

"Just go to bed," I yell at him after he comes out of his room for the umpteenth time. That technique didn't work, so I try logic. "You have had a bath, you're teeth are brushed, I read you a story, sister told you a story, we sang songs, said prayers, you have a cuddly toy to sleep with and your sister is in there so that you won't be lonely. NOW, go to bed." That didn't work either. After using up all of my patience, I pull out the big guns...Daddy. He will show that little tyrant who's boss. After Dad lays down next to him for about five minutes, he is finally zonked out. Hallelujah!

My daughter had a hard time falling asleep too, because Grandma told her to keep her eyes on the sky to look for Santa and his reindeer. I finally convinced her that Santa wouldn't come until she was asleep, so she should cut her vigil short to get some shut eye. She is a rational human being. I like that in a person.

J.B., on the other hand was completely irrational and didn't fall asleep until almost 10:30 p.m. Don't kids understand how grumpy the Fat Man (and Mom and Dad) gets when kids won't go to bed and he has so much work to do before he can sleep? All of the preparation that goes into wrapping mounds of gifts, preparing holiday dinners, keeping the peace among siblings, cleaning the house...it is so much work. So go to bed!

Fave link and Cancel Xmas

Before I throw you off a "naughty cliff," you should really check out this link to Tim Hawkins' website http://timhawkins.net/video.php (No, it wouldn't show up as a link and I am too technologically challenged to make it work. Please just cut and paste and don't be lazy).

Tim is a christian comedian, so it is good, clean entertainment. My brother suggested this site to our family and I laughed until I cried. He has a few new segments on there for Christmas too. I had the same impression as he did about the "Do You Hear what I Hear" song. Who brings a baby shivering in the cold, gold and silver? That isn't even logical. Maybe someone's husband in ancient times waited until the very last moment to buy Christmas gifts and had to settle for the original gift card - cash. Will things ever change? Probably not.

One December, as I was standing in a long checkout line of a busy department store (I think it was a Kmart and they haven't been busy for years), someone called the Christmas department for a price check. After receiving the desired information, the checker came back on the loudspeaker and said "Cancel Christmas." We all clapped and cheered and continued our wait to check out at the register...with sinister smiles on our faces. Cancel Christmas? What a delicious idea! Eat that with your cookies and milk, Santa! I blame you for this, because Jesus died without sin, but Santa is human, so this whole commercial stress fest must be his idea!

Although... Hallmark could have something to with it too. It's always the quiet ones who are constantly kissing up with compliments and sweet nothings and then they end up stabbing you in the back the first chance they get. Dare I even mention the hot chocolate manufacturers, those coniving chocolatiers at Ferrero Rocher who lace their candies with addictive properties that say "Buy my chocolates," the candy cane people, the makers of Christmas lights and inflatables....The list is endless. It is a Holiday conspiracy to make my electric bill soar, my waistline expand, my stress level shoot through the roof as I try to get everything done, and what can I do to resist? Nothing. Because amidst all of this lunacy, I find myself actually enjoying this self-inflicted panic parade that leads up to Christmas, well, most of it anyway.

Sorry Santa! I had a weak moment, but now that I have eaten my entire package of hot chocolate, I am feeling better (and a little zippy). However, I do have this overwhemning urge to go pirate a loudspeaker at a busy retailer, to spread a little Holiday cheer to my fellow women (and the men buying gift cards).

Hot Chocolate Cones

This is a little piece of heaven that my sister told me about, because "Baby, It's Cold Out There." That is the Christmas song that keeps getting stuck in my brain this year. Oh sure, I can't even remember my own children's names, but I have room for useless lyrics to adhere to my cortexes without difficulty. One of life's ironies no doubt. I think I will go drown my frustrations in hot chocolate and go curl into a nice warm...book.

http://familyfun.go.com/recipes/hot-chocolate-cones-687223/
From familyfun.com

A perennial winter favorite, hot cocoa with all the trimmings (mini marshmallows, chocolate chips, and a cherry-red gumdrop) sports an even sweeter look packaged as a cone. This makes a great gift for babysitters, teachers, and neighbors. Be sure to add a tag letting your recipients know the cone contains enough for four servings.

Ingredients
3/4 cup cocoa mix
2 (6- by 12-inch) cone-shaped cellophane bags (available at party stores)
2 clear rubber bands (we used ponytail holders)
Scissors
1/4 cup mini chocolate chips
3/4 cup mini marshmallows
1 large red gumdrop

Instructions
Pour the cocoa mix into one of the bags. Close the bag with a clear rubber band, then trim the end of the bag 1 inch above the band.

Place the cocoa-filled bag into the second bag and flatten its top so the end doesn't stick up.

Layer the chocolate chips and the marshmallows, then top with the gumdrop. Secure the bag with the other rubber band.

Blog Withdrawl

Oh, sweet blog, I have missed you.
My brain is overflowing with tidbits of wisdom,
that long for a safe haven,
funny stories that need an audience,
who will laugh and grimace on cue.
Oh, how I have longed for you.
Never again will I abandon so thoughtlessly.
Forgive me?
My cherished blank canvas,
For now at semester's end
I will blanket you with comforting words,
uplifting stories and
funny Ha ha's.
Without pause,
Just because,
I love you sweet blog
for the sanity
of words shared
As an outlet for my cares.

Tweenage Logic

My oldest son CeDricK is twelve. He has been a debater since he was old enough to say the word "No", which he did frequently. Now he is more eloquently contrary with phrases like "That's not what you said" and "Whatever, Mom!" He would make an excellent lawyer because he can talk a subject to death until you just want to lay down on the ground crying and say "Okay, okay, you win!" Then in a defeated whisper, "Just stop talking about it."

I am a peacekeeper and bridgebuilder from being the third of eight kids and trying to keep everyone happy and settle all of our differences. This parenthood thing is really forcing me to toughen up. I am the "softer" parent who gives in before my husband does, so I get bombarded first with almost any request.

I don't even remember the subject that we were discussing after dinner, but the consistent response to it was "NO." (Notice the use of capital letters for emphasis). My son then confers upon me some of his tweenage (not a child or a teenager, but somewhere in between) logic in a velvety voice. "As you and Dad get older, you are going to get tired. That means that the younger kids will get away with more than I do. So, I think that you should just relax now so that the discipline is fair for all of us." Did you catch that piece of wisdom? I almost tossed my sauce, hurled my second helping and nearly asphyxiated from the huge "HAH" that caught in my throat. Suppressing the sarcastic grin that threatened to overwhem my face, I responded without a hint of laughter. " As a middle child growing up, I learned how important it is for parents to be consistent in disciplining all of their children the same. So we will strive to make sure that we are just as strict with all of the others as we are with you. You are our prototype, so you are teaching us what we will need to know for the future. Thanks for bringing this issue to my attention." His smirk was gone.

Parents, 1 vs. Smart Mouth Tween, Zero.

Autism Spaghetti Recipe by Ben

Autism Spaghetti
Put approx. 6 cups water in a pot.
As it heats, put in spaghetti noodles
drop a few on the floor.
Break a few others to leave on the counter.
Mom takes noodles out of unboiling water
and puts on cookie sheet to side of stove,
Shows sign for "all done,"
Which means "don't touch it, dude!"
When she is not looking
put noodles back in pan.
Repeat the addition and subtraction of noodles
as many times as needed
Until Mom gets wise
and puts them out of your reach
When she is in the bathroom,
do whatever is necessary to get them
and put noodles back in pan.
Mom leaves them this time,
because the water is about to boil
and she is tired of fighting a losing battle.
While noodles cook for an excruciatingly long 10-12 minutes,
repeatedly test with a fork or two
only to have them get too hot
and drop them in the water.
When Mom finally takes pan to sink to drain,
she will carefully pull out the white hot forks
and toss them in the sink
while saying something under her breath.
Forget spaghetti sauce!
The noodles are great
right out of the pan
without adding anything.
Unfortunately, Mom disagrees.
She adds olive oil and Spike seasoning,
says something about consuming nutrients,
and puts the plate on the counter.
Poke at the food on your plate
until Mom gets distracted again,
Then sneak as many noodles as possible out of the pan.
For some unknown reason,
food right from the pan is the best!
Then when Mom puts away any extra pan noodles,
walk away from the kitchen.
This show is over!
She always spoils your best recipes.

Urine for it!

My son is long overdue for toilet training. I am just so tired all of the time and don't want to put the time in. So he has been changing his own diapers occasionally or announcing "I'm wet" or "I'm really poopy." Yeah, he is soooo ready. So we are working on it. We have the iconic underwear with Disney Cars characters or Thomas the Train. I tell him "Don't pee on Thomas, he doesn't need a hose down." or "Don't get Mater wet. He's already rusty enough." He's doing pretty well, but we all have our weak moments.

The other day, I was "securing the perimeter" as I call it, to make sure that no one was getting into trouble, and I see J.B. in the kitchen with a knife ready to cut into the block of cheese that I left out. Rookie mistake! I begin walking hurriedly to take the knife away and slip on the kitchen floor. I slid a few feet and took J.B. down with me, knocking him to the ground. It was then that I realized that the floor was wet and I had slipped on a puddle, a man-made puddle. Motherhood is so glamorous. As we both got to our feet, J.B. says "You scratched me, Mama." It wasn't until later when I was telling my husband about my daily misadventures in babysitting that he asked me "Was he still holding the knife?" I didn't remember scratching him with my fingernail, but I had been a little distracted at the time by my urine soaked pants and the twinge in my ankle. He had cut his cheek with the knife in his hand. That is super scary. He could have been seriously hurt. See, this is why I have put off potty training. Urine is a dangerous thing people, and don't you forget it. Do not try this at home. Stupid cheese!

Three Year Old Seeks "Wife"

I am standing to the left of our stove grating cheese for dinner, when my three year old son comes over and says "I need a wife." I was a little surprised by this since he's still wearing his sister's dress-up clothes without shame. He really has not asserted himself as a manly man, let alone shown a liking for the opposite sex. Not to mention that he is still too young for marriage. I know that in medieval times people married young but this is a little extreme....Wait a minute, he's pulling on the drawer! The drawer in front of me is where we keep the...knifes. Now that makes more sense. I was using the cheese and he wanted some, so he was looking for a knife, ... not a wife. That's a relief. Well, if you can call seeing a three year old boy with a sharp knife "a relief," that is.

J.B. then says to me, "I need a wife to help me cut the cheese." Wow, can you imagine if that were a true statement. Talk about inadequacy issues. If men needed their wives to cut the cheese (pass gas) for them, what would become of society as we know it? Would women have to start scratching themselves and using phrases like "Dude, pull my finger." Would gender roles become even more confused due to this transfer of power? What a mind boggling concept. I don't even want to go there. That is a concept that I have never understood. Maybe it is a male-domination, hunter vs. hunted thing to be able to defeat a foe with toxic fumes of your own making. Women just think it is vulgar and disgusting. For now though, I think that I will keep my thoughts on the task at hand by focusing on the Monterey Jack and leaving the gender roles of Jack and Jill alone.

"Give me the knife, please, kiddo." This happens too often at our house. He really does like cheese, possibly enough to marry it.

Theater Dahling!

With our white gloves and up-do's (hairstyles), fancy dresses and a feeling of anticipation, my daughter Mimi and I went to the theater. We had attended a local production of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella when she was three. We went with her friend Chloe and her Mom Tish. The little girls had worn their costumes to Cinderella, and so we dressed up this time too. My Mom and lttle sister came along and we took up six seats in a row. We saw Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Watching my daughter was an absolute joy. She got startled, concerned, excited, happy and sad. She laughed and wrung her hands. She sat on my lap a little and wanted to sit in her own seat like a grown up the rest of the time. Mimi, her little brother's nickname for her, loves spending time with her Mom, especially when we dress up and do something special. We hope to go watch another production soon. I love wearing my elbow length gloves and fixing my daughter's hair like she's going to the prom. There are so few reasons to get dressed in our elegant best and I will savor every moment that my daughter wants to be seen in public with me.

This "life is a stage" as some famous writer once said, and I plan on enjoying every act of togetherness that I can attend with my sweet children.

Haunted House

I was in fourth grade at Alpine Elementary. We lived in a two-story split-level home on a corner. To the left across the street was a fire station, across from it was a park. Across the street from us was an empty lot with the park on the one side and a house on the left. On the our other side was a huge garden lot, before reaching the neighbor's house. There was a little white haired lady who lived behind us. My point in giving you the geography of my fourth grade home is to establish the fact that it was a really quiet lot with few neighbors and lots of privacy. All quiet except the crying baby.

We had two bathrooms, the one upstairs that we all waited in line to use and the one downstairs. It was cold and clammy and none of us would use it unless we were going to wet ourselves. We didn't know why, but it was creepy. I remember that we did a lot of remodeling to the house even though it was a rental. My parents got to put the cost of materials toward their rent. Maybe we upset the spirits that lived there. We weren't in the house very long though. We moved about every year and a half growing up. I think that my parents have gypsy blood. When we were moving our boxes out one night, we heard a baby cry. My little brother Matt was an infant and I was sent to check on him three or four times and every time, he was sound asleep. There were at least five members of our family that could hear the baby as we sat on the stairs. We began to move much more quickly as we continued to hear the crying.

By the light of day, as we came back to finish our moving, the house didn't seem scary at all. We somehow ended up talking to the little old lady who lived behind us and she told us about two people who had lived there before us. There were a mother and daughter who were involved with the same man without the daughter knowing about it (or perhaps both women not knowing about the man's two-timing ways). The teenage daughter became pregnant by him and when she found out that he was involved with her mother, she committed suicide in the downstairs bathroom. That creepy, cold and clammy bathroom that we all hated to use unless we had no other choice. I have no way of knowing if this story is true, if a young mother died in our house or if the bathroom was haunted by her imprisoned spirit. All I know is that we heard a baby cry, a distant needful cry that would not be quieted. Do I believe in haunted houses? I don't know what to believe.

I know that all of this spooky talk has made me have to go use the bathroom, and that I am a little afraid of what I will find!

(When I find the photo of the actual house, I will add it. If someone had died in our house, then she would likely be buried at the cemetary in the picture).

Tahitian Hip Flop

I have to exercise!

No, I am not a fitness freak! Size 12 suits me just fine, but I have a P.E. class online for college credit toward an Associate's degree in the field of "Whatever I can get the soonest." I have been using an awesome yoga DVD from the library where the people are not too in touch with their Cheeee or all freaky holistic, tree huggerish. Unfortunately, I had to take it back to the library and the one I quickly grabbed on the way out the door, was for a "mature adult." I think that is the politically correct way to say that the person has one foot in the grave and the other in a cast. It was even too slow on fast forward. Before my brain stem could start atrophying from inactivity, I switched it off and looked for an alternative. My other choice for exercise instruction in a box was a DVD called "Tahitian Hip Hop." Talk about polar opposites. I was transported to a tropical beach watching three island beauties who wanted me to shake my hips so fast that they were a blur. Here I was in my desperately-need-a-shower pony tail, with my comfy pajama pants and black t-shirt that doubles as a kleenex, watching three tan, tone women in bikini tops, and short skirts with grass skirt belts. I felt like a thorn among roses, or would it be a fern among tropical lilies? Either way, I felt very out of my element. My abdominals are more like abominables and if I want to get rid of the saggy spare tire, this is definitely a good video for me. If I survive! I need to go lay down. I think that I ruptured my spleen.

Human Wrecking Ball

J.B. our three year old has been sick lately. He started with a fever, then his eye looked bloodshot and gooey, and then it evolved to a good old fashioned cold. He laid around for almost three days feeling lethargic until his ibuprophen kicked in. He would perk up for a while, take long naps and sleep twelve hours at night. It was really nice, ...I mean ...poor little guy!

Today he would sneeze and shoot out double-barrel boogies that would bungee cord all the way down to his bottom lip. Just as I would reach him with a tissue, he would wipe his nose with his hand. I guess that wiping butts for a living wasn't glamorous enough, so now I get to clean up snot streams!

Along with feeling better came J.B.'s inner devil, ready to reek havok at the first opportunity. He dumped out toys more times than I care to remember, food on the floor, snuck three popcicles, continuously changed his own diaper, asked for food and then wouldn't eat it, but made big messes with it, then he would say "I'm hungry. To summarize, he was a hellion! When he went to dump my folded clothes on the floor, I yelled at him and he ran out of the room. Since a salvation nap was not on the menu, I decided to take him for a walk in the stroller with his little sidekick "Baby Destructo." It took forty minutes until I was human again and had regained some much needed patience.

Shortly after, my helper kids came home from school and along with some helping, they added some pre-teen drama and "what happened at school" conversation. I survived much better through the rest of the evening, but it was a really, really long day. My oldest son CeDricK "hung-out" (he's too old to play, you see) for a few hours and the boys walked around the neighborhood three times, so he was sooooo tired. I frequently say to him "You don't know what tired is!" Those words will echo in his head when he becomes a parent who spends his time wiping butts, noses and smirks of pre-teen faces.

Blackened Corn Dog

We usually grow pumpkins in our backyard garden. We have a large lot and extra space behind the city-built chain link fence for access to the irrigation canal. Last year we grew gourds, butternut, regular sized and "Might Max" sized pumpkins, along with melons, toamtoes, etc. We grew 51 smaller pumpkins and 9 goldish-orange 50lbs+ HUGE pumpkins. We had a Halloween party and everyone that came took home a pumpkin, not one per family, but EACH.


This year I thought that it would be fun to have a neighborhood party where everyone was invited in our subdivision to our Harvest Party and went home with a free pumpkin. Yeah, it didn't work out, "cuz we grew zip, zilch, naughta in the pumpkin department. Stupid squash beetles! May you die a thousand painful deaths! I hate those things so much that instead of squishing them with my foot (doesn't work), or putting them all inside a jar to bake in the sun (ineffective), I squish them between my bare fingers (ANHILATION!). They have this sicky-sweet smell, that is a little nauseatng, but watching all of my hard work, money and effort put into my pumpkin plants, shrivel up and die is very nauseating. A lady on one of those A.M. radio gardening shows called squash bugs the "blight of
Idaho." Ain't that the truth!

So, finally getting to the highlight of this very informative and seasonally inappropriate (where has November gone?)blog entry, this year we bought our pumpkins. There is a local fruit and vegetable stand nearby where the pumpkins were cheap. I am debating even growing my own next year, but I will not let those little buggers win. I hate their sweet smelling guts! Sorry, I digress. Anyway, while at the local farmer's market place, I saw something a little strange. It was a Blackened Corn Dog. I didn't even know that Labradors retrieved corn cobs, I guess that you learn something new everyday!

Split Lip Gum

Church is a lot of work. By the time we get all five children dressed and ready to go, throw something on our own bodies and head to the car, we are already worn out. Then we fasten them all into their various car seats or "encourage" them to squeeze into the back seat where the oldest son immediately starts teasing his sister. Often, we split them into two separate vehicles so that we can have an escape vehicle for when, not if, our son Benjamin is simply done being at church. We have begun to bring the portable DVD player with Disney CARS (without the volume and sitting as far back as possible) to help us survive Sacrament Meeting. That is an hour and twenty minutes of intense parenting coping skills put to the test.



We bring amazing snack bags to entice our younger children to sit still and greedily stuff their faces with carbohydrate rich fruit loops, fish crackers, chips and fruit snacks. Our "firstborn son in the wilderness" as we lovingly call him, gets nada. He's old enough to know better, right? Alright, he gets a little bit. Heck, so do I. Kids get all of the best stuff. I'm lucky to get one bag of fruit snacks out of the industrial sized box of eighty. And I so rarely get a juice box that when I do, I hide in the pantry to drink it so that I don't have to share. Come to think of it, I hide in the pantry a lot, eating things that are rightfully mine. Phew! I'm glad that I got that out. The guilt was overwhelming!



Now, to get to the whole profound reason for sharing our Sabbth day frenzy with you...

My three year old son J.B. is very dramatic, to make the understatement of the year. Today at church, he was in rare form. He cried frequently, spoke with his outdoor voice throughout prayers and talks and had very vocal opinions about what he would and would not do. During one of his crying scenes, I walked to the back of the chapel and was holding his 40 lb body while speaking quietly and rocking him on my hip. I thought that it would distract him to blow a bubble with my chewing gum. I made a beautiful bubble with about a three inch diameter and even managed to pinch it off with my lips so that it would not deflate on its own. It distracted him alright! He decided to pop my bubble by hitting it with his gargantuan dome. He slammed his blond afro covered head directly into my top lip, splitting it clean open and making my gum taste warm and salty. I think that he was very lucky that we were in a church building with so many christian witnesses. To avoid harsh judgement, I set him down and breathed deeply and calmed myself before I could retalliate. I was a good girl.

When the meeting was finally over, I mean, when it regrettably came to an end, I gladly sent J.B. to class with his big brother. Benjamin bolted immediately after the meeting and my husband drove the escape car. I put lip gloss over my fat lip, kissed my next antagonist and carried that chubby boy to the next meeting.

P.S. My husband wanted me to make sure to mention that he had held the troops at bay while I fixed our daughter's hair, left to nurse the baby (and enjoyed every minute of my extended visit with the other ladies even after my lactation duties were complete :), and focused on J.B. the two or three times that I had to get up with him. He is an amazing husband and I would never survive without him. (No money was paid for this endorsement).

Pantene-D

When I was 18 or 19, I went on a road trip with four other young woman about my same age. It was a church trip that lasted about 1 1/2 hours. When I climbed into the back seat, I took one of those really uncomfortable hair claws out of my wet hair so I could sit back without pain. With one uniform breath, the other girls said "Pantene." Oh yes, women know these things. That is how we can smell another woman's perfume on our boyfriend or husband. That is how we know who has been holding our baby. We have uncanny skills of observation, because we are one rib sneakier than the male population. Most of the time we use our skills for good, like knowing what brand of perfume someone wears, to buy them the perfect gift. Other times we are more devious as we use our observations to steal someone else's man or to say something vicious and catty to get rid of an annoying competitor. All's fair in love and war, they say.

When we reached our destination, they asked for volunteers to get wet and our carload volunteered. "You will need an extra set of clothes," the lady told us. "We have everything that you need." They sure did, from underwear on out. I was second or third in line. When I got to the counter the lady asked my sizes and when she asked my bra size, everyone was perfectly silent awaiting the response. No exaggeration! You may have heard the phrase "pregnant pause," this pause was carrying multiples! That is another thing about women. We are competitive and comparative with other women. So I give the lady my bra size and she must have spent 57 YEARS looking for one. I have a narrow rib cage and fleshy front parts, so it is an unusual size. But why, why did she have to say the size over and over as she searched. Finally, she found an alternate size and I moved my mortified body to one side so the catty chics, I mean "other ladies" could get their clothes. (Right now, my readers may wonder, what size is she? I don't think I will say!).

Here is the thing about bust sizes; if you want, say, a D-cup, you also get the birthing hips and big feet that come with it. Be careful what you wish for. There is also back pain and rarely finding a button up or crossover shirt that stays where you want it. That may sound good to you, but I like to keep my modesty and hold it close. Thank goodness for underwire!

X-man Baby

My nephew was born today. He came C-section and weighing in at more than nine pounds. It is a hard way to lose weight, but childbirth is such a nice way to start a person. Here is my ode to Xander.

Baby X

Welcome to this sphere.
We're glad to have you here.
You are fresh and pure,
A special cure
For a lonely girl
Like your sister
She'll like you, Mister.
I know for sure I do.
Before I even meet you.
You are your Daddy's son
And Momma's precious one.
A hard journey lies ahead,
So rest your little head.
Welcome to our clan,
Baby X man.

Love, Auntie Insane in the Mom Brain

(Soon your Mom will join the ranks of low brain capacity, over-worked, sleep-deprived, very grateful to raise God's children, "Is that another gray hair?", multiple child joyousness). Right now, maniacal laughter is echoing through the rafters of my padded wall domicile. Tee hee!

Smells Like Chicken, Tastes like...

I specialize in embarrassing myself, whether publicly or privately. It is a natural talent that I possess and can't seem to shake.

I am the star of one of our family's most memorable stories having to do with ordinary baby food. I was feeding my son Benjamin a jar of Organic Blueberry Applesauce. I had him sitting on the kitchen counter, where he couldn't run away. When my son had finished the jar, I lifted him down and he ran off. I saw some of his yummy baby food in a splatter on the counter and swiped it up with my finger. It was neither yummy or applesauce, but organic matter of a deeper, darker and more disgusting origin. Yes, it does taste just like it smells! I used all matter of cleaning fluids to wash out my mouth but felt dirty for days. The joys of motherhood.

All five of my kids have had the ability to make or break an average diaper. I have so many stories of flinging fecal matter and leak-throughs of magnanimous proportions. I could write a book! A great example of bodily functions gone wrong would have to include my oldest son at a Cub Scout meeting where I was the newest Assistant Den Mother. During a prayer, my son passed gas making a man sized blast of sound. A scout turned from the row of chairs in front of me and gave me an accusing look. "It was the baby," I told him. He emphatically said "That was no baby."

This last Sunday at church we were at a special ceremony for our son who just turned twelve and has had many more responsiblities placed upon him. My baby brother came from college to help in my son's ordination and was holding my nine month old son while sitting next to my oldest son. The boy on the other side of him says "Does anyone else smell that? It smells like chicken." After the ceremony, we were leaving the room and as I was handed the baby I discovered the source of the "chicken" smell. It was not a fowl smell, but a foul smell emanating from his diaper.
For the rest of the day, if either boy had a dirty diaper, we would say "It smells like chicken" and it's someone else's turn. That's the pecking order, now isn't it? Get it?

Fridge Safety

When your child is going through some obnoxious stage, people tell you "Oh, he'll grow out of it." Yeah, right! This will be the death of us first!

Some of the stages that we have had the opportunity to survive are:



(1)Coloring all over the house with crayons, pens, markers, etc.,
(2)Stabbing counters, sinks, walls and upholstered wall covers Mom made, with sharp objects,
(3) Spewing forth large and frequent amounts of water,
(4) Fecal painting,
(5) Urinary protests on furniture and in stores,
(6) Running away at every opportunity,
(7) Refusing to wear clothing,
(8) Climbing on the roof,
(9) Dumping all his leftovers in the trash like at the school cafeteria,
and as a final example,
(10)Frequently testing alarm systems on exit doors in public places.

Three emergency alarms on the same visit is our record (he was on a kid leash to make it more embarrassing), but we've tied the record one other time too. No, these are not all of his "stages," but I could be here too long otherwise. The truth is, that as slow and tedious and elusive as that conclusion is, it does come. We have grown past some of his behaviors and cope with the others. Get to the point! Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there.

Smoke and Mirrors

Her name was Ruth Seguin. I remember her name because we worked at a fabric store together and her name reminded me of sequined fabric. She had a cheerful glittering persona with a rougher side, just like the fabric. I was a young girl of eighteen or nineteen. Naive? You bet.

Ruth was about twice my age. She had lived a hard life. Her parents definitely didn't treat her well. She started smoking at age fourteen, probably drinking too. When she was diagnosed with breast cancer, she postponed her smoking to complete chemo, then started up again. When she was diagnosed within the same year with irreversible bone cancer, she quit the cancer sticks, but kept drinking her beer. The high calorie content helped her keep her weight up. At least that was her reasoning. Her husband left her after twenty plus years. She was too depressing for him, but the new girlfriend wasn't. In sickness and in health must have been a one-sided agreement for him. I don't remember his name, which says a lot.

After her first brush with cancer and a mastectomy, Ruth had shown me the little tattoo dots on her rib cage that let the radiologist know where to aim. She said she had always wanted a tattoo, but was never brave enough on her own. Be careful what you wish for.

Ruth grew weaker and eventually couldn't work. She grew bloated looking from the chemo and eventually died. I would imagine that death was a blessing compared to life with a painful terminal illness. We gathered in her garage with her family, friends and neighbors. Two other "material girls", as we called ourselves, and I came to the memorial. Whoever it was that spoke about Ruth with a beer in his hand said wonderful things about our co-worker. Then he set his drink down on a workbench and perched his cigarette on top of it for a moment of silence. As I reflected on Ruth and my memories of her and the period of life that we had shared, I couldn't tear my eyes off the beer and swirling cigarette smoke. I had been taught my whole life not to smoke or drink but until that moment I had never fully understood the impact that such habit can have on everyone within breathing distance. My friend had killed herself. What started as an escape at age 14 had caused her to destroy her own body through years of self-inflicted poison.

What a lasting statement that made to me to keep my body clean. Her eulogy caused me to look at myself in the mirror and promise to never have smoke obscure the image staring back.

A Sea of Orange

I opened my son's drawer to get him a plain t-shirt without pattern or design and no tags. He's very particular about what he wears. It has to be comfortable and no buckles, zippers or snaps. Not hard right? Did I mention his current favorite color? Tangerine, pumpkin, flame, cantaloupe, carrot, and good old orange are his color(s) of choice. I opened his drawer to a sea of orange. Yes, there are other colors underneath, but his drawer is predominantly his "energy color," (that is his Grandma's phrase. It has to do with a key color to your aura. You ponder that one. It is too deep for my psyche).

Our only "real" sports team in this area has blue and orange for their team colors, so Benjamin has a lot of team spirit. Whenever he gets a haircut, he refuses to wear the cape, so he sits in his old t-shirt and when he's finished he gets a new orange t-shirt. Good thing he doesn't insist on wearing Abercrombie or Gap. We would be broke in no time.

We love when our son shows a preference for anything, because it is a form of communication. He has consistently had a preference for a certain color. First it was burgundy, which involved him nabbing anything that color from realative's houses when we would visit. He scored my Dad's pillowcase and his aunt's socks, but he made several other attempts. Then, for a while, he carried around a ratty old red towel like it was a security blanket. That was often convenient because he made a lot of messes and we had the means to clean up any liquid spill immediately by saturating his security towel.

He had security white socks too. He would only wear socks long enough to come to his knees. So they were generally men's socks. He liked to put on as many at once as possible. I don't remember his record, but I believe it was 7 socks on one foot and 12-14 socks on at the same time. It was quite a sight!

October is a great month for Benj to shine in orange all the time. We even get him one of those t-shirts that IS the costume. Perfect, a one size fits all way to show your holiday spirit. Ooooooooh, spooky!

Organic Muralism

I had forgotten how much young children like markers. All of those pretty colors! There's is something intoxicating about the brightly colored packaging and all those jewel-toned sticks that create streams of vivid color. And what better canvas could there be than...Mom and Dad's bed. Oh, yes. It's large enough to contain any creative genius that might be put forth by a budding artist and with a cotton comforter for absorbing liquid color, the possibilities are endless. A few mad scribbles here, a few there, three or four on my own body and oooooh, they are delicious too. I love markers! A few color changes. Voila. Perfection. I have become one with my art, literally!

Why did we leave him alone in our room with markers? He wasn't alone. Dad was on the laptop doing homework for one of his four college classes and Benjamin is stealthy. He is quiet and fast. The markers were extras from our school supply section of my closet where I stash all things gift related. Means, opportunity, motive and likely in need of a dose of calming meds and the scenario was inevitable. The comforter went promptly to the laundry and Benj met with a soapy cloth, but his lips are still a dark tint of blue. He couldn't have used yellow or pink, they are so pale that it would have lessened the impact.

This is not a new scenario, but it has been a long time. He also used to use organic material from his own body. We called this "Organic Muralism" to lessen the nastiness factor of cleaning someone's fecal matter off of every reachable surface in his room. (Look up Jackson Pollack, an established abstract artist who had a similar genre of art. True story). I will spare any further details, but he now has a wood floor in his room instead of absorbant and hard to clean carpet. We own our own carpet cleaner and powerful shop vac. He also enjoyed dumping out hard to clean liquids like shampoo, liquid soap, vegetable oil and raw eggs. He has also dabbled in powdered mediums like flour, brown sugar, cinnamon and laundry soap. It is taking him a long time to master his bathroom needs and when he had a "urinary protest" , we would have to clean that surface also. A big apology to whomever got to clean that clearance aisle at Walmart and the natural foods aisle at another local retailer :) If I remember correctly, the brown sugar incident was on that same comforter. It is a survivor like everyone in this household. Did I mention that we also have a three year old boy with drama and an eight month old boy that eats soil from plants and anything on the floor? I love it, most of the time.

Try reading a story book by Robert Munsch called "Purple, Yellow, Green" about a little girl who colors on herself with super-indelible, never come off until you're dead and maybe even later coloring markers. I love that story. I wonder why?

Splish Splash Fun and College Again

I took my daughter, her friend and three year old son to a family birthday party this weekend. Dad kept the other three kiddos at home. All I had to do was hold an occasional towel and stalk the kids with a camera. I had so much fun taking pictures at they played for hours on this inflatable water slide mecca that the birthday kids' grandparents own. I got a great one of my daughter's friend squirting my girl right in the butt! That's all you see is a girl with a water cannon, my daughter trying to escape and water hitting her disappearing backside. Priceless! Then my daughter climbed a tree in bare feet and a bikini. I took pictures but don't want to share because she looks too grown up. I am still in denial that she will be a young lady in the not distant enough future. I am still collecting guns to have my husband clean when all those obnoxious teenage boys come over to kidnap my daughter and take her on a date. The nerve! I refuse to think about that for a while. We will just focus on getting though first grade right now.

I started College again on Monday. I didn't do it for Obama. He is not my savior, but don't get me started. I am so close to finishing my Associate's Degree that I decided to just get it done. It will probably take three semesters at 2 classes each, but it will happen sooner rather than never that way. With student financial aid, it is like being paid to be a student and I don't have to clean the restrooms. I was having to do that almost every night at my retail job. I am now enemployed and enrolled. Nice work if you can get it. I am taking my second required English class and a P.E. class. I am paying to get in shape. If that doesn't motivate me, than nothing will. Progress is good!

Sitting on Kids at the Dentist

After the kids were happily released to the school bus drivers, I busied myself trying to catch up on laundry, cleaning, childcare, etc. I didn't even make a dent. Then it was time for my three year old's first dental appointment. He didn't go when his other siblings went because he was running a fever, so he went today without the positive peer pressure of his siblings. Okay, Benjamin had given the dentist a little bit of hell by not letting him in his mouth and had to be sat on by me and his hands held by his Behavioral Therapist. Then because we had hoped his medicine would help him be calm and cooperative, he proved us right... and wrong... by taking a nap on the examining table. But his other two sibblings would have been a good influence. So once again, I sat on a child in the Dentist's office. His next visit involves a sedative and another new toy as a bribe.

At least no one got hurt and I got cute pictures. Isn't amazing how pictures never show how stressed, sleep deprived and irritated the people are, just a glimpse of something seemingly normal. Ah, to live in a photograph, would be so boring, wouldn't it?

I Made it to the Light

My son has been on summer vacation since May 30-ish. It has been an excruciatingly LooooooooooNG summer. Today, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel and was awash with its life-giving warmth. Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have seen salvation and it is long and yellow and has nice people on it who take your children away for hours at a time...a school bus.

Okay, so it didn't happen quite that poetically. After getting my #4 and 5 kids to sleep at 11:00 P.M.(which included falling asleep sitting up in the rocking chair and waking later with a numb and tingling arm), I was awake at 4:20 A.M. with my autistic son Benjamin. I gave him his regular meds with the happy addition of Melatonin in applesauce to help him get back to sleep. We call this delicacy "Happy sauce." I got a little more snooze in an armchair from 5:30 A.M. until 6:00P.M. My oldest son and only daughter started school a week ago and made it to the bus just fine. Benj was still sacked out when his bus came and went. I finally got him up & showered. I have him eat breakfast in his underwear because he doesn't distinguish between a napkin and an outfit. He dumped both breakfast choices in the sink without even so much as a sampling. He spun and broke another drinking glass, and we were on our way!

After I did a drop and ditch, with love of course, my two little ones and I went to Party! I didn't do cleaning. We went to a store for donuts and a park to play. Later, we took a nap. It was a good day.

The Spinning. Stop the spinning!

I am a survivor. I am a mother of five children, four boys and a girl snuck into the middle. They average about 30 to 36 months apart. We don't believe in popping out babies as fast as possible. It is nice to get one out of diapers shortly after the next on comes along. Every one of our children has their own unique personality with the most prevalent similarities being lots of energy and advanced drama. That is where being a survivor comes into play. Did I mention that I have a 120lbs. low-functioning autistic son to also add extra spice to my life. Yes, we are done reproducing. I know my limits. Nervous breakdowns have been known to happen in my family and I don't want to add to that statistic, nor do I want to have to be medicated unless absolutely necessary.

I am blogging after having slept from 1:00 A.M. until 6:00 A.M. while nursing a baby and switching him to the other side twice. Luckily, I had a three hour desperation nap yesterday which refreshed and messed me up. I stayed up to process plums from one of our seven fruit trees because the fruit flies were taking over my kitchen.

Spinning? Oh yes, the spinning. My son Benjamin doesn't spin himself like a lot of Autistic kids do, he spins everything else! He prefers breakable dishes and glasses. Our dish supply has suffered significantly lately, but our broom has steady employment. I know that this is a phase just like coloring on all our walls, "organic muralism," wearing seven pairs of socks at the same time, eating apples twelve times a day, slamming doors,...sorry, I got carried away. So, I will survive another day with a sleepy smile on my face and hope in my heart.

Autism House

Welcome to our home! The first thing that you will notice as we welcome you to our Autism House is that everything locks. That's right! The front door, all the bedrooms, the pantry, the laundry room, cupboards, cabinet for movies/DVD player, etc. Why,you ask? Once you have spent any length of time in our unique household, you'll understand. It's insane!

P.S. No children were harmed in the making of this Blog.