Tully is Still Gone

And I'm still sad. I've seen lots of missing cat fliers around the area, too, which doesn't bode well.

Last night I swear I heard cats meowing at two different times during the middle of the night, and thought both times, "It's Tully. Wait, no it's the ghost of Tully haunting me." We've had cats before, who "went off to the country." I didn't have the bond with Jaspurr or Purrcy I have with Tully, though. Sounds strange, talking about a bond with a cat, but really, she was a sweetheart and it's like the two of us girls shared the Mom bond. Yes, I'm a crazy cat lady grasping at straws, but that's just how it seems to me.

I miss the feeling of her lying on my feet on the bed at night. I miss sitting on the couch, watching TV, knitting, and looking up to see her on the back porch silently meowing at me to let her in. Last night I was sitting on the couch, knitting and watching TV, and kept looking up to the back door, but no Tully was there.

I discussed getting another cat with Hubby last night, saying if we got a cat who'd never been outside and made sure to keep it in, it might work, but Hubby insisted the cat would get out eventually with the kids and dogs going in and out so frequently. Sigh. I don't know. The Humane Society is having their fabulous 2 for 1 July Cat Sale, or whatever they call it. The influx of new kittens means they need to find homes for the adult cats, so let you adopt two cats for the price of one. When we got J & P as brother kittens years ago, they were in the kitten version of the sale. Guess the Humane Society figured it would help the adult cats more to be in homes, as kittens are easier to adopt than adult cats.

The cynical part of me thinks of it in these terms: Tully had the time living with us, which was more than she would have had if she'd been euthanized. Though as Hubby so nicely pointed out, euthanasia is painless, whereas being killed by another animal is not. Sigh. I miss you Tully.

Tully, Tully, Sweetest Kitty

Tuesday evening, as I was preparing dinner, I looked out the window to see Tully running across the back yard with something gray and furry hanging from her mouth. It was large, so I was hoping it wasn't a rat she was bringing us. She's good at mole and mouse hunting, but tends to not leave those on the doorstep anymore, thank goodness.

It wasn't a rat. It was a bunny. Tully dropped it on the doorstep, and I pulled her inside. I looked out the window. The bunny appeared alive, but as if it were "playing possum". I decided to get a box to move it out to the woods, while Tully yowled to go outside again. By the time I got a box, the bunny had disappeared, so apparently it was well enough to hop off the porch on its own. I was relieved, as I don't like bunnies dying. I'm fine with the mole killing, as I guess I never read "The Wind in the Willows" as a child. I did read "Watership Down" though, and tend to sympathize with adorable little bunnies over their less cute rodent cousins (I know, rabbits aren't rodents. That's why I said cousins!). Strangely enough, I had rats as pets, and like them, but not in their wild or non-domesticated pet form.

Later that night, Tully figured out how to get out of the upstairs bedroom window where the screen is broken. As I was getting ready for bed, she appeared above me on the bathroom skylight, meowing at her predicament. I told her I couldn't help her, as the screen on the skylight doesn't open, but I wasn't worried as she's a good climber and I figured she'd find her way back in. I went to bed and Tully was inside at morning.

Wednesday night, she was up to her window antics again. I went to bed again. Thursday morning at dawn, I heard Tully coming in the window, followed by squeaking sounds. I hoped that it was the sound of a dog toy being squeezed, but had a feeling that wasn't the case. I got up, and say something gray on the floor. I didn't have my contacts in, so had to get closer to see that it was a bunny. A sweet little bunny with some clumps of fur missing. I sighed. It was still alive, but I knew it wouldn't be for long, and I couldn't bring myself to do it in. I got a tissue box and carried it outside, leaving it under a shrub. I hoped it would be able to find its way back to a nest and heal. I checked later, and it was still there, but not looking very live. Sigh. Sorry bunnies! You don't do well in our neck of the woods. See here.

Still, I couldn't really be mad at Tully. She's a cat. She likes to hunt. It's her nature. When we adopted her, the people who put her up for adoption had remarked on her intake form that she was a "good provider" for her kittens. Yes, I bet she was! Bringing me bunnies isn't necessary though. I've never eaten rabbit, and don't plan to start on tiny bunnies my cat has caught for me. No, I'm not a "butcher it yourself" kinda girl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday afternoon, I was painting a table in the dining room with the window open. Tully was lounging on the walkway outside, and I'd call to her and she'd look up with her beautiful green eyes. That was the last time I saw her. She didn't come in Thursday evening. We had been doing well keeping her in at night until she discovered the window screen trick. I thought she's pop in Thursday night, but she didn't. Early this morning, around 4 a.m., I thought I heard a distant meowing, and ran outside, expecting to find Tully. She didn't come. I kept hearing the noise, but I don't know if it was a cat, or another animal.

I had a dream later in the morning that she came back, bringing a dozen little kittens that looked exactly like her with her. In the dream, I remarked to Hubby that I guessed they hadn't spayed her at the Humane Society before we adopted her after all, but that was why she'd run off -- to have her kittens. I was so happy and relieved in my dream. Sigh. Off to do more neighborhood scouring with the boys.

Little (and Not-So-Little) Monsters

Saturday, my BFF took me and the boys and her daughter to see "Elmo Makes Music", a live show with giant Muppets (or maybe they were people dressed in Muppet costumes...no I'm sure they were real Muppets) from Sesame Street singing and dancing. The tickets were Harrison's birthday gift, and it was really a great show.

No, I'm not kidding. The boys both loved it, and Harrison danced around in my lap or in his seat the whole time, and anytime Elmo left the stage, Hutton asked, "Where's Elmo?" One time he said, "Elmo went to go potty." Haha. Who knows, but if it's a person under Muppet fur, it would be quite an ordeal to go potty. And those Muppets really can dance! Big Bird looked a bit odd in person, with shorter wings, and BFF pointed out how big The Count's schnoz was in person, but still, they were getting their grooves on, joined by a human, "Jenny" who was a music teacher new to Sesame Street.

The highlight of the show for me was the Muppets dancing to the Hustle while singing, "Making Music", which segued into Bert, dressed in a hot white disco tux, dancing to a song from Saturday Night Fever, with the lyrics changed. (It reminded me of the Sesame Street Fever days!) Yes, the show was definitely geared to the parents, too, with classic video footage, including the pinball number of the day thing. You remember that, right? "1 2 3 4 5, 6 7 8 9 10, 11 12! Doo da da doo da di doo da doo doo dada doo dooo....Aaahhh, eight!" Yeah, I know it's hard to do those lyrics. I bought the CD from the show, but it didn't have the lyrics printed. Here's the YouTube, but with number six.

We had a totally non-GFCF lunch pre-show, but Hutton seemed fine. And I further pressed my luck with cotton candy at the show (they sold it on these cool light-up plastic sticks, so you had a neat toy after you ate your cotton candy!). Again, he was fine. Until that evening, when he got into the leftover cotton candy and quickly started falling apart. Oh well. It was a one-time only thing, and up until five or six, he was doing great. When we got home, Hutton wanted to go outside, but I was tired and said no, since he had played outside for an hour at BFF's house after the show. Hubby didn't jump in to take him outside, even though he'd been free all day while we were gone. Oh well. Hutton decided to go outside anyway. I figured he would, and went downstairs, to find Hutton coming in the front door, saying, "Uh oh! The Elmo balloon is stuck!"

Huh. "Where is it stuck, Hutton?"
"In the tree!"

I looked up. The giant mylar Elmo balloon I'd spent $8 on (hey! It was fun! I couldn't resist!) was about 40 feet up in a maple tree. I got angry, as I had told Hutton we weren't going outside, and he'd gone outside and let go of the balloon. Hutton got sad and whiny, and soon afterwards the boys were going to bed, after neither wanted the delicious leftover "surprise" dinner I'd whipped up in the microwave. I actually attempted to scale the tree later, after the boys were in bed. I got about 20 feet up before I realized:

a) I'm 33. I haven't climbed a tree since I was about 12.
b) The ground under me is either shrubbery or the stone walkway. I don't want to fall on either. Risking my life, or even a broken limb for an $8 balloon is just plain stupid.
c) Man, my heart is racing. If I continue climbing, I may have a heart attack from fear.
d) That balloon is not anywhere near me. If I make it 20 more feet, I still have to go out on a limb, literally, to get it.

So, the cons won, and I carefully climbed back down. Yes, I've changed a lot since my daring college days, when I was into rock climbing and regularly helped out on the high ropes course, sitting on a tree platform for several hours on Saturday mornings. Then again, both of those involve harnesses and ropes, so if you fall, you're not going to land on a hard surface and break your neck. Well, you still run that risk, but if you've got a good belayer and are very safe, not as likely to fall as when free climbing a tree.

So, Elmo is still taunting me from the tree. "Wuss! Elmo knows you want Elmo! Some squirrel or bird will surely die from Elmo being here!" I may wait a while for the helium to evaporate, and tackle the climb with a ladder. Elmo balloon, you will be mine!

Going Postal

Today I had two annoying shipping related run-ins. This was after spending $20 yesterday to ship a heavy package at the UPS store. Yesterday, we bought birthday gifts for my niece and nephew at Toys R Us. I would normally have just ordered them online, so they'd be shipped, but I had already bought one of the gifts, so was going to have to ship something anyway, so I figured I'd just buy and ship everything myself.

Bad idea. When I got the gifts all nicely packaged up in the big box that fit them all, the box wasn' heavy, but was big. I went online to calculate postage. I didn't have a ruler handy, so I guessed how big the package was. It was going to be over $20 at the post office, or about $20 at UPS, so I decided to ship it UPS.

I also gathered together some other packages to mail at the post office. I managed to sell some of the diaper fabrics I had under the dining room table, so was going to mail those. The most expensive of the fabrics I had wrapped in a nice piece of tissue paper, but I needed a Priority Mail envelope to put it in, since it was at a weird weight that it was cheaper to mail Priority than it would be parcel post. The others were smaller and cheaper. Lalala. Feeling fine. Getting things done. Making money off my crap.

I get all the stuff in my car. Harrison is asleep, but it's already 4:30, so I need to go. I carry him to the car, and he wakes up in the process, but seems fine. Hutton gets in the car of his own volition. Great. Feeling fine.

Get to the UPS Store. Hutton does not want to get out of the car. "Stay here! Stay in car!" I explain to him that I can't leave him in the car, since I don't know how long it will take. Regret not having tinted windows, so I could just go ahead and leave him in the car and not have any busy-bodies telling me how I'm endangering my child by doing so. Get angry and annoyed Hutton, Harrison and giant box out of the car and inside. Hutton immediately starts wanting to use the bathroom, get some water, and other stalling techniques he uses. I tell him he'll have to wait and I get my package on the counter. Harrison happily finds the toy box and stars playing. Hutton gets distracted with reading the numbers on the mailboxes, and forgets his need to pee and drink water. Phew. Feeling fine...wait scratch that. Did the guy just tell me it would be 37 freaking dollars to ship this package?! Jeez. Feeling poor. (Now, I suppose I could have declined to ship the package, and then returned the toys I bought and just mailed a darn gift card. That's what I'll do next time, but I'd already invested two hours or so in the gift buying, so I figured I'd chalk this up to stupidity.)

Hutton is ready to go, but Harrison wants to stay and play with toys. Drag whining child out to car. Get in and head to post office. Hutton again doesn't want to go in, but I tell him he has no choice. Inside, I get a Priority Mail envelope and slip my nicely wrapped fleece fabric inside, while Hutton tells me he needs to use the bathroom and get some water. But still, feeling fine. At least this stuff will not cost much to mail. I've already printed out the Priority Mail postage label at home, so just have to hand it off and pay the cheaper first class mail on the smaller packages.

Get in line. Only a few people. Hutton only tells me he wants to be all done twelve times or so. Get to the counter and hand off my packages. Explain I want first class on the small ones, and the other one is already paid. The clerk puts it on the scale. "Did you weight this at home with the envelope?"
"Yeah."
"It's heavier than what's on the label. I'll have to charge you more."
Distracted by kids, "That's fine."
"OK, it will be $2.90."
I'm about to say, "OK" until I realize she wants to charge me almost $3 more for the weight that the tissue paper must have added to my package.
"Wait, did you say $2.90? It's almost $3 more to ship an extra ounce?!"

The clerk politely explains that it is, and how important it is to weigh things accurately. I tear open the envelope and pull off the tissue paper, then stuff the fleece back in. "What is it now?"

Clerk: "It's still over a pound." She takes the fleece out. The fleece alone weighs 15.9 ounces. The envelope and label apparently add enough weight to make it over a pound. I explain that my scale at home had it at 15 ounces with the label and envelope (well, not the exact envelope, but a plain white envelope of the same material that I didn't want to waste since I knew I could get a free Priority Mail one at the post office. Yes, I'm a cheap bastard.). The clerk gives me a "yeah, sure" nod. She politely hands me flat rate cardboard envelope. "If you can fit it in here, it will be $4.60."

I look at the tiny cardboard envelope in bewilderment. I look at the puffy pile of fleece, then grab the fleece, stuff it in the envelope and proceed to sit on it on the post office floor so I can flatten and compress it enough that I can close the envelope. I am angry about the arbitrary weight issues, but glad I can wrangle the fleece into the flat rate envelope. Of course, it will look like crap when it arrives at the home of the person who bought it, with no fancy tissue paper and in an envelope bursting at the seams. Oh well. She didn't pay extra for shipping. I stupidly sold her the fabric with "shipping included" in the cost. Never again.

I hand off the envelope and the clerk gives me a new address label to fill out. After I do so, I realize, "Wait, this doesn't include Delivery Confirmation, does it?" The label I had already printed out at home, now attached to the old, non-flat rate envelope, included DC, and it hadn't cost extra. Again, I'm cheap. The clerk gives me the, "jeez, what next?" look, then pulls the label off the old package, tearing it in the process. It manages to still stick to the new envelope, and I pay my $3 for the other packages. The clerk points out that I need to make sure to weigh future packages, "so your customers don't have to pay the extra cost." I nod and give a half-assed apology for being short and annoyed, then hustle the boys out, thinking "Customers! They're just some other moms like me who bought my fabric. Hmm, are they really customers? Well, the customer getting this package isn't going to be impressed either way."

I can definitely understand why the phrase "going postal" is in existence. I was going to add a picture of the Priority Mail flat rate envelope, but I have a feeling this post will already land me on a postmaster watch list as it is.

Get the Lead Out!

Hmm. Actually, hunters, go ahead and keep it in, if you're using the gun on yourselves, that is.

I was listening to NPR this afternoon on the way home from Toys R Us with the boys (note to other parents: don't go to Toys R Us before lunchtime with a three-year-old who will refuse to leave until he is hungry and cranky. Then again, if you do, he may pass out in the car on the way home!) when this story came on.

Basically, it is about how condors are still endangered because of lead poisoning, from eating carcasses that had been shot with lead ammo. Hunters go out shooting things with toxic ammunition, and the "gut piles" (carcasses hunters leave behind) that the condors eat are poisoned with lead.

There was an NRA cuntspokesperson on talking about how there was no proof that the lead ammo was responsible for hurting anything, so they weren't doing anything about the lead issue, but to that I say a big, "DUH!" Rather, I yell at the radio about stupid bitches who should be shot, as I wonder how anyone can deny that lead is toxic. Oh sure, it's toxic in paint, but really, it's perfectly fine to use in your ammo when you go out killing Bambi's family, and leave their poisoned carcasses behind to kill endangered species. Fortunately, they had a decent human being on after the evil cunt who said when he heard that ammo had lead in it, he started buying lead-free steel ammo, and it seemed to work just as well, if not better, than the toxic stuff.

I just don't understand how in this day and age people still don't understanding that fucking up the planet with toxic materials just because it's "what we've always done" is wrong. Yes, this goes for mercury as well. Just because it's been used since the beginning in vaccines, doesn't make it safe to use it today, now that we know mercury is a potent neurotoxin! The same goes for putting it in your teeth via "silver" amalgam fillings. And while we're at it, why are they using mercury in compact fluorescent lights? GAIOIGOIURT! This stuff makes me so freaking angry. The environmentalists are all so excited about saving electricity with these things, but if one breaks in your home, you have a biohazard on your hands. Not to mention nobody is going to properly dispose of these toxin-filled shitshards when they eventually burn out. Right now, you have to pay to recycle them at select stores (there's one light store in the area I live in that takes them). Yeah, that's going to go over well. Most people do not know that these shouldn't go straight in the garbage, and that's exactly where they'll end up, ensuring the future destruction of our already toxic world.

Sigh. Where's my gun?

Why I Blog

Read Gouda's post on this here. Or here.

After reading this, I thought about why I blog. I started to be one of the cool kids, like Gouda and Kristen. They are moms I met way back on an online group I joined when I was pregnant with Hutton. And they were bloggers, and I wanted to be cool, too. So, I started my own blog.

At first, I thought someone, somewhere would see my blog and decide they just had to pay me to write for them professionally. (This is the same gullible part of my personality that thought I'd be hired by an advertising agency or publishing house fresh out of college with no experience. I mean, if you don't count my years at the Hallmark store printing stationery, or my internship at the theatre in my college town, where I mostly avoided the advances of the creepy old men who worked there (except for Brian, who was old, but not creepy, but he wasn't interested in college girls for some reason), or my multitude of volunteer work in college that had nothing to do with advertising or publishing. Hmm, the ropes course counselor bit should have been worth something! How about Green Earth Gang? And ECOS? No? Oh well.) Strangely enough, I have not been snapped up to write professionally, yet I continue to blog.

Why? I don't know. It's an outlet for my thoughts and feelings. The ones my children don't care about (yet! There's still time!) and I don't share with Hubby. For some reason, I've kept the blogging secret from him. It's the little part of me I keep for myself. Better blogging than an affair or drug addiction, right?

I also like to post about annoying things that I'm sure someone somewhere will find annoying, too. I like to post the things I think are funny. I know a few people appreciate the "my other ride is a mustache" humor.

And of course, I like to post about Autism, because it is so much a part of my life. Well, I wouldn't say I like to post about it. More that I need to post about it. I'd be more than happy if I didn't have Autism in my life, and could post about the other ups and down of a life without Autism, raising two "normal" kids. In my dream world, I'll post about what I did to recover Hutton from Autism, so other parents can read and say, "Oh great! That worked for someone! Let's try it on little Johnny and see if it helps!" Well, we'll see.

Now that I've been blogging for over a year, I've made lots of great friends. I never thought I'd consider random people I met online as friends, but I love reading what others in the diverse blogger community have to write, and I have found so much support, laughter, and yes, friendship, in my fellow bloggers, and those who don't blog, but read and comment on my blog. So, thank you bloggers! You're one of the main reasons I blog.

And if you want to pay me to do so, please, feel free. You know where to find me.

When Does School Start?

Thursday was the last day of school. We had a nice weekend. Friday was my and Hubby's tenth anniversary, but I'd neglected to find a babysitter early enough, so we had an exciting pasta dinner (rice pasta for Hutton) at home with the boys. Hubby came through with some lovely flowers and chocolates. I pulled the wife card and got him nothing. Oh well. He did get something later on. Wink, wink. Saturday, we went to the zoo. Sunday, the boys played outside and I did yard work. Almost done mulching all of my beds! Now I just have to buy play chips for the swingset area. I'm already tired of moving wood products around in wheelbarrows, though.

This morning, Hutton's ABA therapist called in sick. She's pregnant and has been missing quite a few sessions since her big announcement. Oh well. I didn't work when I was pregnant, so I can't fault her too much. The boys and I ate breakfast, then played three games of Cariboo and a much-too-long game of Balloon Lagoon. When Harrison wanted to play another game, I got off by reading him a Clifford book then turned on the TV so I could read email. We ate lunch, and the boys want to go outside again. I do have another few wheelbarrow loads of mulch to move. Sigh.

I made the mistake of looking in the storage bins under the dining room table last night, where I keep all my fabrics. Jeez, I have a lot of fabric I bought when I was convinced I was going to make Harrison cloth diapers. I ended up making a few, but had all of the bigger sizes from Hutton. So, now I have tons of cloth diaper supplies I know will not be used. By me, at least. Guess I can sell stuff on ebay. But that will involve lots of work. Another sigh. Not to mention all the fabric I bought for curtains. And the tee-shirt quilt I was going to make for Hubby from all of his college tee-shirts. (He was on his college concert committee, so went to practically every show for four years.) Hmm. Turning the tee-shirts into cleaning rags sounds a lot easier at this point. Will Hubby even care about a tee-shirt quilt if I make it, or will it end up in his closet forever? It's not like he's going to sit on the couch with it on his lap, knitting. Yeah, the cleaning rag idea is sounding better all the time.

Sigh. I suppose I need to at least get dressed today.

Yet More Sad News for the Autism Community

There was another drowning yesterday. Story here. Five-year-old Kaylie Dickerson drowned in a holding pond across from her house. There are lots of these holding ponds around here, but they put fencing up around them, presumably to prevent children from drowning.

I wish Kaylie's family peace as well, in this sad, sad time.

Wishing Benjy's Family Peace

Benjy Heil, a seven-year-old with autism wandered away from home last Thursday, and after an exhaustive search, his body was found in a creek less than a mile from his home. Story here.

After last month's episode of Hutton wandering from the birthday party, I looked into getting a monitoring device. He hadn't wandered since the party, so I decided not to get one, but after this, I'm rethinking it. Hutton used to wander a lot when he was first diagnosed, 3 years ago. He'd walk across the street to see the horses, or want to look at the mailboxes. One time, our neighbor found him wading in the creek at the end of our street, wearing a tee shirt and diaper. This was while I was talking to the police officer in the driveway. As soon as I realized Hutton was gone, I ran out to the street, saw my neighbor, and he started looking while I called the police. I am getting tears in my eyes just typing this. I thank my lucky stars Hutton was all right then, and the handful of other times he's run off. (Yeah, that's what we agnostics write, since "Thank God" just seems wrong, though I do still say it a lot, as well as thanking Jesus. I'm agnostic, not atheist, after all!)

Many kids with Autism, Hutton included, are very curious, but don't understand the inherent dangers of the world, that other children learn relatively early on. And the water fascination. Sigh. I am always reminding Hutton when we go outside, stay where Mommy can see you. If I call your name, come to me, or answer so I know where you are. Still, nearly every day my heart stops if I look down for a moment, then look back up and don't see Hutton. He and Harrison love to chase each other around the walkway around the house, but the problem with that is there are so many blind spots, and the seconds before he pops up running around the corner can be agonizing. Yeah, the monitoring device sounds like a very good idea. Fortunately, Harrison is a very good snitch watch dog and will tell me, "Hutton's digging a hole!" or "Hutton's by the neighbor's fence!" The neighbors have two big German Shepherd dogs, and a menacing sign in their driveway about how their German shepherds can make it to the fence in 15 seconds, can you?

Of course, I was a wanderer as a toddler, too. The story my mother likes to tell, which is funny when she tells it, but was not so funny at the time I'm sure, nor with the news above, was when I was about eighteen months old, Mom went to go pick up the babysitter, leaving my dad in charge of watching us kids. He was working on a car in the driveway, and I was playing in the sandbox. Except, a few minutes later, when Mom was driving home down the busy street near our house, she saw something moving on the side of the road. A blurry child came into view. "Oh my goodness! That's a toddler!" Closer, "Oh my goodness that child is naked!" Closer still, "Oh my goodness, that child is LAURA!" Mom wasn't too pleased when she got home and asked Dad, "Where's Laura?" Dad: "Oh, she's playing in the sandbox." Mom: "NO SHE ISN'T! SHE WAS RUNNING NAKED DOWN TWELFTH AVENUE!" Yes, I am lucky to have survived those days, and apparently Hutton got my elopement gene.

Payback is Only Fair

After tagging Agent M with a meme last week, she tagged me back. I assume that I'm supposed to answer all of these in single words, since that's what Agent M did.

Your Best Friend: thoughtful

What Are You Thinking About Right Now: lateness

Your Car: temperamental

What Are You Doing At The Moment: thinking typing

Relationship Status: steady-on

What Is On Your TV: Hoobs

What Is The Weather Like: crappy

When Is The Last Time You Laughed: last night yesternight (I changed it! Look it up! It's a word! And I need to see or read something funny!)

So, who needs it? Gouda? Kimbally? Don't worry, it's easy!

Personal Service

This morning, as I was lying in bed, trying to wake up, though I'd been up a few times already to get Harrison back in bed at 4:30 a.m. when he woke up saying, "Watch it again!" and with Hutton jumping in bed with me and doing his version of the worm a few times (you remember that old breakdancing move, don't you?) I was trying to gather my thoughts to remember what I needed to do.

Finally got moving and did the first thing -- schedule an appointment tomorrow for the lovely Jetta to have recall maintenance done on her brake light, which happens to be burned out anyway, so I needed to get it done. Then I saw the email messages from the teacher and the ABA consultant about school for Hutton next year. I tracked down the special education director's phone number and left a message that I need to go observe the first grade contained class at Sunrise* Elementary. Yes, now that it's the LAST WEEK of school. I love being frazzled, really. But we just had Hutton's IEP, and then re-evaluation last week, so I didn't know what everyone else thought would be best for Hutton until last Wednesday, then Thursday was the big field trip, and Friday we had his ABA session. Oh well. I'll get it figured out.

Another email just read came in, from our insurance company, telling me that Hutton's coverage for ABA was set until September, then we'd need an update. OK. The last line was the one that really got me: "I hope Sutton is doing well~!" Hmm. Did you not notice that his name was Hutton one sentence previous? Do you think we have one of those kids whose name gets changed around as often as possible, to keep him on his toes? Good idea! Better go get Barrison a snack. Hey! I like it!


*Sunrise -- I'm feeling weird about this school, that I know nothing about, because of a cat, of all things. My in-laws have lots of cats. They had a few, then after Hubby's grandmother passed away, his parents went to clean out her house and there were lots of cats, thanks to the fact that her "intact" kitty had just had a litter.
One of these kittens, Sunrise, has Kitty CP or something that caused him to have no motor skills in his hind limbs, so the poor thing lives in the back bathroom with a gate up to keep him inside. He has lots of uncontrollable twitches and drags himself along on his front paws. I just feel bad every time I see this cat. He's a beautiful gray cat with yellow eyes, but doesn't get to the litter box well, and...it's just not the best situation for a cat, let's say. And every time I hear the word, "Sunrise" this is what I think of. If "Sutton" ends up in Sunrise Elementary....well, we'll see!

Thomas, How Could You?!

Theme of the Week - RECALL!

I saw a recall notice on Thomas the Tank Engine toys listed on several of my email lists over the past few days, and finally got around to clicking on the link to see what was recalled. I guess I had "recall" on the brain, since the lovely Jetta is also due for a service appointment to fix a safety recall. I had received the letter a month ago and filed in away in the "maybe I'll see this again this year" pile of papers in a basket on the kitchen counter. A friend pointed out that my rear tail light was out Wednesday night, which is exactly what the recall was for, so that spurred me right into action...two days later.

Back to the Thomas issue. I entered the link - click here!- and feasted me eyes. Thinking this would be some obscure toy I didn't have, I was a bit surprised. Hmm. I have that one. (Well, Hutton and Harrison have it.) Then another, and another. Out of the twenty-three toys recalled, we own fourteen of them. Twenty if you could the three James engines we have (don't know why we have so many Jameses - he's a prick if you ask me!), and the many stop signs and railroad crossing signs. They were recalled because, "Surface paints on the recalled products contain lead. Lead is toxic if ingested by young children and can cause adverse health effects." (from RC2 Corp. press release). Oh, joy. Just what I need, more toxic metals in my home. Well, I wasn't so much concerned about the ones in my home as I was about the ones already in Hutton's brain and other internal organs. Now, I'm concerned about the metals in my home. Every one of those toys has been played with, tough boy style, and have paint chips. Again, just great. I'm seeing a big cleaning session in my future, when I clean up the train table and wipe everything down and vacuum obsessively. Sigh.

So, others of you out there with Thomas-obsessed youngsters, please check around and see if you have any to return. As a Thomas video would say, "Calling all red engines! And some other red and yellow stuff, too. This has caused much confusion and delay!" Not to mention Harrison is not taking too well to seeing the fire station and ice cream factory toys boxed up. Think I'll have to distract him with a movie downstairs.

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UPDATE: After sorting all the leaden trains from the pack, boxing them up and taking them to the post office, I read this on a list: "I checked the numbers on the bottom of each engine listed that we had. It is nearly impossible to see. Black paint on black paint, I think...but it's there." D'oh! After I picked up a Percy lying at my feet and squinting in the light, I saw it. Tiny dark gray letters and numbers on a black background. Crap! So, some of the toys I returned were probably fine after all. Oh well.

More Random Stuff and School Meetings

Yesterday, Harrison and I went to the postal annex at the mall while Hutton was doing speech therapy so I could mail a package. We were waiting in line, and some older, late 50s "gentleman" with greasy gray hair and a Hawaiian shirt was talking on his cell phone, leaning on the counter by the line. He was talking loudly enough that anyone in the vicinity could hear. I didn't really pay attention until he started talking about hooking up with the Southwest flight attendant from Missouri. "Yeah, she's 65, and wow, what a crazy lady! Afterwards, she said, 'Whew! I needed that.' And I said, 'Yeah, me, too, baby!" Apparently whether they'd be able to meet up again in Reno was in question. Man, I sure hope it works out for the guy. It really sounds like they made a love connection. Another customer finished paying, and looked at me and said, "I'm sorry you had to hear that," as he looked at Harrison. I smiled and nodded, but really, Harrison wasn't listening and wouldn't have known just what the IT was. The old greasy guy really was proud of himself and probably wanted everyone to know -- he's still got it, baby!

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Today I had the follow up to Hutton's re-evaluation meeting at school. There was a bunch of different testing done to make sure Hutton still applied for special services at school. Hmm, he has Autism, talks at about the same level as his 3 year old brother, and has gross and fine motor delays. I wonder.

So, I headed to the school, where the school psychologist led the meeting. Things were going well (or at least, not unexpectedly; Hutton was still delayed in verbal, gross and fine motor skills) until she pulled out the psychological test results, including Hutton's IQ. I grabbed a tissue as my eyes started watering in preparation for what I was going to hear. The psychologist looked at me and said, "Don't worry. We're not going to tell you any bad news!" Yeah, right. I don't think being told your child is below average IQ is exactly good news, do you? She kept repeating that some of the reason the testing doesn't go well is because of Hutton's autism, but that really doesn't make it all better to see the bell curve and all of your son's stats lying on the "wrong" side of the chart. I know that Hutton is smart in his own way, and have faith he'll excel, or at least be proficient in math and science in time, but still, seeing that thin yellow section of the curve where he resides is painful.

The psychologist did have one good point I hadn't thought about. Discussing placement for next year, she said that repeating Transition Kindergarten, which strangely enough, the teacher I dislike wants Hutton to do, based on his youth (he's the youngest in the class) and "immaturity", might not be the best idea. As the psychologist put it, most of Hutton's problems in school are not related to immaturity but to his disability. Autism. That's why he doesn't stay on task and get things done quickly. That's why he is easily distracted, hates disruptions to routine and loud places in the school. I really appreciated that the psychologist pointed that out in the meeting with the teacher, who always focuses on how immature Hutton is, sitting beside me to hear it. I just don't understand why this teacher, who seems to really not like Hutton at all, wants him to repeat the class. Her class. She's the only TK teacher in the school, and they are not going to bus Hutton to another town to be in a different TK class. Just a little bit odd. So, whereas last week I was resolved that repeating TK was the only option for next year, now I'm looking at the other option -- a first grade contained class. (Contained is an all special ed class, as opposed to a general education class.) There's only one week of school left. I guess I better get on it!

Tagged! Eight Things About Me

The talented, and soon to be published, writer and funny blogger Kim Stagliano tagged me to complete this post.

Dah da de duummm.............Eight Things About Me

1. Like Kim, I am a righty with special lefty skills. Unlike Kim, I brush my teeth left-handed. I was ambidextrous with coloring until first grade. Then I guess it was beaten out of me. Just kidding about that last part.

2. I was born in Florida, grew up in Massachusetts, and spent my formidable teen years in Nashville, TN, but managed to escape without an accent of any sort. I can pull out the Baahston accent when talking about the doawhg faahting (sorry, that's my bad attempt at phonetically spelling the Boston pronunciation of "the dog farting"). My sister and I once had a contest to see who could do the Boston accent longer when staying at my dad's house in Holbrook for the weekend. We were inspired by the Beltrimini girls who lived across the street who raawhked those accents! Oh, for more on this see this wicked awesome site I just found on Google. I am actually better at doing a Boston accent than a southern one, though the other day a cashier asked me where I was from with my twang. Huh? Must have doing some slow talking that day. My southern relatives could never understand anything I said with my "Yankee" fast-talking (read: normal speech).

3. I also managed to escape Massachusetts and Nashville without big hair. My sister tried hard to get me to follow her lead, but I couldn't embrace an orb of bangs. The worst I did was bowing to Mom's pressure to get a perm. I had several "body waves" over those hellish teen years. And just so you know, a body wave is the same thing as a regular perm where I had them done. Today, I embrace my flat, limp hair, as if it were my own. Oh wait, it is my own. Maybe I should get someone else's beautiful waves as extensions?

4. I have what my family calls "Hagan toes". These were named after the first distant relative who discovered that his second and third toes were sort of webbed. Or maybe they were named after his wife/sister. Haha, just kidding. I think my great-grandfather, who wasn't married to a close relation, had them and coined the term. The toes are separate for the most part, but the last little section by the foot is connected. OK, ignore the blurry pic and bad chipping nail polish. Warning scary freak toes to follow!



I knew a guy in high school who had the same toe configuration, but I didn't find out until we were in college and having a drunken hot tub toe comparison. Good thing our relationship didn't go far, or we might have found out were were cousins. It's all in the toes!

5. I've had lots of different pets. The animal frenzy started when I was a toddler in Florida, with tiny frogs I'd carry around all day, then bring inside and try to keep in the bathroom sink. Those never stayed around long for some reason. Flebster and Webster, the ducks. Rabbits. Guinea pigs. Gerbils. Hamsters. Rats. Parakeets. Fish. I really wanted goats, but had to settle for visiting the goats some friends of my parents had. In college, my friends surprised me with a tree frog for Christmas (they knew about my frog love, as I was fond of all things froggy). His name was Norwood, and he was very nice, but required live food, which was not always fun. Since Norwood, I've stuck to the more common pets. I have to remind myself not to get sucked in by the cute critters every time I visit the pet store with Harrison, though. (To self: You can barely keep up with the litter box as it is! Just say no to animals that require the changing of cedar bedding!)

6. I was the runner-up in the 7th grade spelling bee. I went to get out of English class for a few minutes. It worked. I got to stay out for the entire class. I can't remember what the word I lost on was. The boy who beat me went on to misspell saltine and I shook my head in disbelief. SALTINE! Other dorky contests: I read the most books in the year in my sixth grade reading class, and I won by a landslide.

7. I was on the Safety Patrol in fifth grade. I don't know why my fifth grade teacher chose me, the shyest child in the class, to don the orange plastic sash with metal badge, but I got to leave class five minutes early and always got a primo spot on the bus, leaving my backpack and trumpet on the last seat before I went on to my exciting job. "Walk!" "Slow down!" Yeah. I've still got it, baby! (I don't play the trumpet anymore. Stupidly enough, I quit in eighth grade, when we moved to Nashville and I had my braces removed, so I never knew what it felt like to play it without sliced up lips. I mistakenly thought I'd appear cool by not being in the band and not having braces.)

8. I can wiggle my ears. I spent so much time as a kid pretending to be a horse "pricking up its ears" that I got those muscles built up. I read lots of Black Stallion books, and every horse in there was pricking up its ears every other page.

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So, those were long, and some were answers and a half. I really rose to the challenge, didn't I Kim? Can you come up with some award for me? Nominate me to be the blog meme answerer of the day, perhaps? Don't worry. I won't need a plastic sash or badge.

Now, who is up for the challenge? I'll tag....

Agent M., since she was tagged already and didn't do it. Doesn't my being annoying spur you on?

and Mom Without a Manual. To take her mind off of school crap. I mean important things we must do to make sure our children are adequately educated.

I have to deal with my own school crap tomorrow at 8 a.m. Why I am up blogging? See what I do for you, Kim?!

Tony, Tony, Tony

Not to be confused with the pop/R&B group Tony! Toni! Toné!, this is about Mr. Anthony Soprano. That Tony.

So, Hubby and I have been watching ole Tone for eight years. We didn't see the first season until it was in reruns, but got hooked pretty quickly. And then we did the, "What's going on? Who are they talking about? Now, who's that guy, again?" for the remaining time we watched.

The dry spell from Harrison's birth to the final season this past year was almost unbearable! Good thing we had a baby to raise to keep us distracted! And we were watching the Sopranos season finale when my water broke with Harrison. Really. June 6, 2007. Look it up! Crazy, huh? Should have named him Tony, I guess! Or maybe Harrison David Chase. Nah, too long.

Last night, Hubby and I sat down to watch the much anticipated series finale. We laughed at AJ's emo silliness -- I especially loved how quickly he went from listening to Bob Dylan in his SUV, to accidentally burning it, and getting the got the oh-so-fuel efficient BMW soon afterwards -- and Paulie's issue with the seemingly Christopher-obsessed cat. I got a great sense of enjoyment seeing Phil die, strangely enough. Probably because they cut to the cute, oblivious babies in the car instead of showing a crushed skull. Then, finally, the end scene. So much tension. And then....

WHAT THE FUCK? Hubby was pissed. "I watched this show for eight years for this! This is the only freaking show I even watch anymore." I pointed out that now he can focus on just watching movies.

After reading the various theories and interpretations of the ending, I'm starting to like the ending more. You know, it appeals to the English major in me, who spent so many years interpreting novels and blathering on about them. You can read any number of things into the way it ended. The symbolism of the onion rings, what's going on with Meadow's parallel parking problems, the cuts to the various diner customers. I thought immediately that Tony was dead, but you never know. As Journey's Steve Perry sang, "Don't Stop..." Oh wait, where's the believin'?! I won't stop believin' Tony!

Happy Birthday, Harrison!

Happy Third Birthday to my sweet toddler! I love you!

--Mommy

Talking My Way Into a Cold, Cold Place

Last week, I revealed a bit too much to my son's Kindergarten teacher, and now I realize that I'm going to have to do something I don't want to do.

Sounds crazy and intriguing doesn't it? Well, it's not all that crazy and intriguing. Read on.

I didn't even talk my way into the cold, cold place. I simply checked a little box on Hutton's field trip permission slip. The box next the words: I'm a scuba diver and would like to help collect specimens to show the class on the trip.

Yep, I revealed my skill, and now it appears that only I and another dad in my son's class were foolish enough to check the box, out of two entire schools worth of kindergarten parents. And now I'm going to have to go diving in Puget Sound next Thursday.

Sounds fun and exciting doesn't it? Well, it is, but it's also very, very cold. Probably low 50s water temp. Sigh.

But, I am getting a bit excited to dive again. It's been six years! My last dive was in Hawaii, though, so not as cold. Time to find the PADI software and get cracking relearning some information I've forgotten. Maybe I'll go beg for someone to come with us at the local dive shop, too: "Yeah, I know I haven't been in here in six years, but I've been thinking about you all the time! Come to Mukilteo and dive with me, please?"

I'm getting cold just thinking about it. Think I'll check into what it costs to rent a dry suit while I'm at it!

Thanks, Tully!

So, about a week ago, I noticed the little mouse hole by the downstairs toilet intake valve was open again. I had stuffed it with Bounce sheets, as I read somewhere that mice can't stand the smell. Well, some mouse with no sense of smell apparently pushed through. I found one of our "no-kill" traps and put it out, and restuffed the hole with Bounce.

It was pushed out again the next day, and the trap was flipped. I picked up the trap, but no mouse was inside. Hmmm. Reset the trap, restuffed the Bounce, wondered what exactly Tully, our cat, was doing around the house if not killing little mice.

Friday morning, I noticed a dead mouse outside on the front walkway. I was going to head out to clean it up after I finished my coffee, but Harrison beat me outside. I heard him crying and rushed out to see what was wrong.

"Mouse!" he cried.

"It's OK, sweetie. Did you see a mouse? Yeah, I think that mouse is only hurt. Mommy will move him so he's more comfortable!" Yep, lying through my teeth.

Or so I thought. When I went to pick up the "dead" mouse, it was actually moving. My skin began crawling in full-on Heebie Jeebies as I carefully picked up the dying mouse with the dog poop rake and moved him to a "more comfortable" death bed, under a tree in an area neither dogs nor boys frequent.

Just typing that makes my skin crawl further.

So, not only does Tully leave partially dead mice on our front walkway, but she also neglects to kill the mice who saunter into our house at will. Yeah, thanks, Tully!

Our Newest Family Member

Presenting...

FINN MCCOOL!


He's a beautiful Betta speldens fish, otherwise known as the Siamese fighting fish. Harrison and I, on our weekly trip to the pet store during Hutton's speech therapy appointment, picked Finn out to be a birthday gift for Harrison and Hubby. (Their birthdays are a week apart.)



I remembered the name from my Irish literature class way back in college, and figured the "finn" part fit a fish very well, and as you can see, he's very McCool. (Bad. I know!) Of course, I've already come up with a nickname for him: Glub-Glub.

The pictures didn't turn out very well - blurry and dark, but you get a good idea of his beautiful coloring and how pretty his fins are. Hence the name!

Hell Spots

After last night's post about how I've become a twice-weekly blogger, I throw a third blog post in today to mess with everyone's minds!

Today I took Hutton to speech therapy. (We were ten minutes late, but left the house on time, or what I thought was on time. Apparently the 50 cars piled up at the light ahead of me this morning thought the same thing!) After we dropped him off, Harrison and I headed out to "run errands". I headed down the street to a certain green mermaid coffee joint and played my mystery woman game.

Afterwards, with a hot coffee in one hand, and a sweaty toddler palm in the other, I headed to my car to take some notes. Then I headed to the other green mermaid coffee joint, diagonally across from the first store, in the same strip mall, mind you, to do my second shop. (It would have been really cool if there were another of the same store inside of the QFC grocery store, next to one of the green mermaid stores, but alas, the Seattle's Best got that spot. Oh, and by cool, I mean insane. But hey, these stores all seem to stay in business, so more power to 'em!)

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After all the coffee shopping, followed by a brief run into the QFC grocery store, which ended in a screaming Harrison being dragged out yelling, "More shopping!" (yeah, that's exactly what I love to do with screaming toddlers - grocery shopping!), I headed to pick Hutton up from speech therapy. When we got to the car, I stepped in some very well camouflaged chewing gum -- white spearmint gum stuck on the white parking stripe. As I attempted to scrape my now minty sandal on the pavement while getting Harrison in his car seat, I cursed the flibberty-gibbet smurf-tail who left the smurfing gum there.

I continued to stew on this when I got into my own seat and tried to wipe off the gum with a baby wipe. Why do people (or smurfs, in this case) put their nasty used gum in places where other people will encounter it? What is so hard about finding a scrap of paper, wrapping your used gum in it, and throwing it away? Did these people not realize that used gum is considered litter? Yeah, it is in my book! Now, I compost lots of stuff at home -- I just got a free worm bin, so I can do food scraps and dog poop now! Yippee! -- but I don't throw crap on the pavement in parking lots, knowing it will decompose eventually. Yeah, it does, but in the meantime, nobody wants to step in it. Same thing with dog poop. It will decompose eventually, but when you leave it by the side of the road, even on rural suburban ones like the one my family lives on, someone may still step in it. And stepping in dog poop sucks. I know. I've done it, the boys do it a lot, and I've cleaned up lots of shoes.

Anyway, back to the gum. When I was little, I would often just swallow my gum if I didn't want to chew it anymore. And believe it or not, it doesn't take seven years to digest. It doesn't digest at all, just goes through your system and come out later on. I'm sure it can cause some people problems to swallow gum, but, even if you can't swallow gum, please don't leave it on the pavement, or underneath a table or desk somewhere. That's just nasty. And I think there's a special spot in Hell for people who leave gum around for others to step in. Hmm. Maybe I should move to Singapore, where gum it outlawed. Nah, I actually like chewing Big Red after coffee. I just take it out and throw it in the trash afterwards. Yeah, can you believe I go to all that trouble?

The Twicer

I've become the thing I've always dreaded. Well, that's a lie. I've never really dreaded becoming it. I didn't even know it existed until a few years ago when I even discovered blogging. "IT" is the twice-weekly blogger.

That's right, I'm a lame blogger who can't pull random thoughts out of my sad little brain and condense them into semi-coherent passages more than twice a week. That's OK, though. I'm all right with it. I can accept my blogger failings. Sometimes I just have to be outside gardening when the Northwest weather finally turns warm and sunny after nine months of rain and gloom. Other times I may be spending too much time looking for things I don't really need on ebay, or getting caught up on the latest with "Poor Little Lindsay! I blame her father for this!" and other celeb gossip.

I only hope that you, Gentle Reader, can accept my failings as well. Sob, please accept me as I am!

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Another "twicer" event is the Cleaning Lady. (Cue that "angels singing" or choir sound). She and her sister come to my humble abode twice a month to keep me and my family from living in squalor. Believe me, it's a very small price to pay, at any price she'd charge. Hubby didn't even give me a hard time about it, since I am the "housewife" and that was on the list of job requirements when I signed up for the job. (Wait, you other housewives didn't get a list of housewife job requirements? Hmm. I'll have to double-check that.)

Anyway, twice a month, I scramble around the house, tidying up on Cleaning Day Eve. That's one of the tricks* of life -- you have to clean for the cleaning people. See, if they show up with the house in its normal state -- toys everywhere, Hubby's laundry basket in the middle of the bedroom, shoes lying around here and there, dishes piled in the sink and on the counter, laundry piled up in the laundry room -- they can't clean the stuff they came to clean. So, I have to pick everything up and put it away, or sometimes just hide it in piles in the closets.

That was what I did on Monday night, Cleaning Day Eve. I got the rooms tidy (not clean. There's a big difference between tidy and clean!) and even had the check written and on the console table, ready to go. Now, I wouldn't have to scramble at all on Tuesday morning!

Tuesday, I got up early, showered and dressed, and got the boys their breakfasts with plenty of time to spare. It was looking like I might actually get Hutton to speech therapy on time, until I remembered that I hadn't picked up his nighttime diaper and pajama bottoms from the bathroom floor that morning, which I wanted to do so the Cleaning Lady didn't have to touch them. (Hutton's morning routine, which he often forgets and needs to be reminded to "Go use the potty and get dressed!", is to get up, go use the potty, leave his pajama bottoms and nighttime diaper on the bathroom floor, put his pajama top in his hamper, and get dressed in the clothes I laid out for him the night before.)

WARNING: CRAPISODE TO FOLLOW! (I posted this after reading Kim's blog today.)
The diaper left on the bathroom floor was dirty with poop, but no poop was still in the diaper. I looked in the toilet. Wow! What a big step for Hutton! He dumped the poop into the toilet! (Now I just need him to stop pooping into his diaper at night. That makes for smelly laundry the next day, believe me!) Unfortunately, he also put in a bunch of baby wipes as well and the toilet was clogged. The poop alone probably would have done it, and it may have. I didn't actually see him put baby wipes in the toilet. The Cleaning Lady was due in 20 minutes. To plunge and be late to speech therapy, or just leave a note, and still be late? I left a note saying, "Do not touch! Toilet clogged. Will plunge later."

And we were late. But at least I had a nice excuse to give the speech therapist! Nothing shows respect for someone's time like a good poop excuse.


*I was going to use the word "ironies" here, but after the Alanis Morrisette song, I really hate the misuse of the word irony or ironic, and I couldn't think of the right word. So, if any of your human thesauruses can think of the right word, please let me know!

Funniest Typo Ever

Or, at least, the funniest I've seen today!

Reading posts on one of the many Yahoo groups I frequent, I saw this:
"I would much prefer to wake up each morning by the genital sunlight..."

After LOL'ing (laughing out loud for those of you who like to speak and read in non-abbreviated terms), I have to disagree. I like to wake up in any way that doesn't involve another being waking me. For instance, no toddler running in the room crying that he's hurt himself (meaning, his older brother hurt him, but he hasn't figured out to say, "Hutton hurt me!" instead of, "I hurt myself!") or an older son coming in announcing, "Breakfast for you, please!" (Meaning, "I want breakfast!" not, sadly, "I'm bringing you breakfast in bed momentarily.")

And I'd have to include being awoken by "genital sunlight" as someone else waking me. Though, I suppose if I were to fall asleep nude AND with the curtains open, it's possible some sunlight could bounce off my own genital region and wake me.

Now, waking to "gentle sunlight" is OK, but around here in the Pacific Northwest, the gentle sunlight comes earlier every day once the summer comes, and waking to sunlight, gentle, genital, or otherwise, before 5 a.m. just sucks. (No genitals involved in this case.)

This Made Me Cry

You're Adopting Who?

A couple's decision to take in an autistic child draws callous
reactions.
By Ralph James Savarese
RALPH JAMES SAVARESE is the author of
"Reasonable People: A Memoir of Autism & Adoption," which will be published Tuesday by Other Press. May 21, 2007

"Why would anyone adopt a badly abused, autistic 6-year-old from foster care?"

So my wife and I were asked at the outset of our adoption-as-a-first-resort adventure. It was a reasonable question in this age of narrow self-concern — far more reasonable, or at least more reasonably put, than many of the other questions we fielded.

For example, "Why don't you have your own children?" a wealthy relative inquired, as if natural family-making were a kind of gated community it was best never to abandon. "You two have such good genes," she added. "Why waste them?"

A colleague at work confronted me in the mailroom with this memorable gem: "Have you tried in-vitro?" She feared that we hadn't availed ourselves of the many wondrous technologies that rescue infertile couples. "Wouldn't that be better than adopting a child with a disability?" she asked, drawing out the word "disability." "God knows
what that kid's parents were doing when they conceived him."

"We're not infertile," I barked. "We have a relationship with the boy."

My wife, an autism expert, had offered his mother services, but as the woman found it increasingly difficult to care for her son and then dropped out of the picture altogether, we'd started spending time with him. His first communicative act with language, at age 3 — the sign for "more" — we'd taught him while tickling his belly.

He later made that sign in the emergency room of a hospital where he was brought after being beaten in foster care. Upon seeing us — we'd been called in to try to calm him — he stopped in his tracks, paused (as if to allow some associative chain to complete itself) and demanded obsessively to be tickled. I remember searching on his chest for unbruised patches among the purple, blue and black. He was that frantic in his quest for the familiar and, dare I say, for love.

To this day, I can't believe how callous people were; the strange anxiety that adopting a child with a disability provoked. And the anxiety just kept coming. "Healthy white infants must be tough to get," a neighbor commented. No paragons of racial sensitivity, we were nevertheless appalled by the idea that we'd do anything to avoid adopting, say, a black child or a Latino one.

As offensive was the assumption that we must be devout Christians: hyperbolic, designated do-gooders with a joint eye firmly on some final prize. "God's reserving a special place for you," we heard on more than one occasion, as if our son deserved pity and we were allowed neither our flaws nor a different understanding of social
commitment. The journalist Adam Pertman, in his otherwise excellent book, "Adoption Nation," reproduces this logic exactly when he speaks of "children so challenging that only the most saintly among us would think of tackling their behavioral and physical problems."

Despite the stigma attached to "special-needs children," people do adopt these kids. And yet, many more Americans spend gobs of money on fertility treatments or travel to foreign countries to find their perfect little bundles. I'm haunted by something my son wrote after we taught him how to read and type on a computer: "I want you to be
proud of me. I dream of that because in foster care I had no one." How many kids lie in bed at night and think something similar?

The physical and behavioral problems have been significant, at times even crushing. The last eight years have been devoted almost exclusively to my son's welfare: literacy training, occupational therapy, relationship building, counseling for post-traumatic stress — the list goes on and on. But what strides he has made.

The boy who was still in diapers and said to be retarded when he came to live with us is now a straight-A student at our local middle school. He's literally rewriting the common scripts of autism and "attachment disorder" (the broad diagnosis for the problems of abandoned and traumatized kids). These are hopeless scripts, unforgiving scripts in which the child can't give back.

My son does, and others can as well. Recently, in response to my hip replacement, he typed on his computer, "I'm nervous because Dad has not brought me braces [his word for crutches]." I was just home from the hospital — wobbly, a bit depressed, in pain. To my question, "Why do you need crutches?" he responded endearingly, "You know how I like to be just like you." My son was trying to make me feel better, taking on my impairment, limping with me.

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I've thought of adopting a child, but it's a very short-lived idea, usually. On the good days with my boys, I think I'd love a third child, biological or adopted. On the bad days, I don't think I want the kids I have. Well, I'd like to be able to give them back for at least a fifteen minute break!

Hubby brought up having "at least one, if not two" more kids a while back, and I think my horror-struck look was enough to kill that topic for several months. He hasn't been drunk enough to bring it up again.

As for the adopted versus biological: before I had a child with Autism, I thought I had pretty good genes. In hindsight, several alcoholic, auto-immune diseases, and cancer-filled genes seem to be floating in my gene pool. Hubby's pool has some issues, too, I'm sure.

Of course, there's the weird part of me who still wants to have another baby, so I can try out home birth in my bathtub (yeah, I said it was the weird part of me! I've got a thick granola center, you know!), or "try for a girl" as the saying goes. Though really, there's not much "trying" involved, it seems to me. We can "try" all we want, but Hubby's sperm are the only things that really play a part in the girl game.

I Don't Get It

I saw an ad on TV last night for Femcon , the "only chewable birth control pill."

"Sometimes it’s hard to establish a routine – the same time is just not the same every day." OK. They're marketing these as being so amazing because you can carry them around and take them wherever! A birth control pill you can chew! Because those other pills are just so enormous you couldn't possibly swallow them? What the smurf is wrong with people? A regular birth control pill is tiny. If you have trouble swallowing those, you may have other issues in bed, if you know what I mean.

To give these "WTF is wrong with you people" the benefit of the doubt, maybe they need a full glass or water to take with their tiny little pills, and having water with you is sooo inconvenient. I mean, if you have to take a tiny little pill without water, it might get stuck in your tiny little esophagus and dissolve instantly and leave an icky taste. Oh no! The horror! Someone really needs to come up with a chewable birth control pill STAT! Much more important than curing diseases. Oh, phew! They've done it! Chewable birth control pills. Thank you pharmaceutical companies! Don't worry about curing diseases or figuring out how to make flu vaccines without mercury. Not important. These little birth control pills taste like spearmint! Awesome!

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Hmm. I just went to the site for Femcon, and read this:

Femcon Fe offers an option for women with busy lives - spearmint-flavored pills that can be swallowed or chewed.* Now you can take your pill at the same time everyday, anywhere you happen to be. Femcon Fe is effective and reliable whether swallowed or chewed.*

*Immediately followed by a full glass (8 oz.) of liquid.

Yes, that's right, you STILL need to take them with a full glass of liquid. So, how does chewing a pill, followed by a full glass of water, versus swallowing it with a full glass of water drastically improve the lives of busy women? And if you're a lazy slob of a woman, who just wants to chew a tasty spearmint pill, can you still take these?

Nothing New Under the Rain

Not much to write about. I've had a very bluesy 24 hours of emo shit and won't bore you with that.

Hutton took half of his supplements today, after I gave them to him in melted chocolate. (This is after his doctor's appointment Friday, when she essentially told me Hutton needs to be taking twice as much of each supplement he's currently on, which since he never finishes his supplement-laced drinks, is really nothing. So, technically, twice of nothing is still nothing, but I was going with the "best case scenario" dosing, in which Hutton actually takes the supps. Did I mention dr. wants us to start giving him MB12 shots, too? Yeah, really looking forward to those!) Of course, in order to get all the supplements in, it was way too much chocolate to give a kid in the morning, but he didn't eat it all at once. So, that's one nice thing that happened today. Of course, a few hours later, Hutton made me forget all that when he threw a super tantrum right before we had to leave to get the school bus. Still tantrumming as we ran to the bus, which was waiting for us down the street. The bus driver and bus driver-to-be watched, masking their horror very well, as I led screaming angry Hutton onto the bus. He sat down and announced he had to use the potty. I told him he'd have to wait until school. The BD and BDTB both exchanged a concerned look, probably worried about the state of the bus's seats. I rolled my eyes and said, "Fine. Let's go home. Sorry guys! (to the bus drivers)" So, Hutton got out of going to school today because he threw a tantrum and I just didn't have the energy to deal.

That's pretty much the gist of my day. The boys spent it watching videos, and I spent it being sad and reading celebrity gossip. If I really want to do the emo shit right, I better go find some Smiths CDs to listen to. Hmm. Wonder which ones I actually have on CD. I had them on tape in highschool.

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Hubby is SERIOUSLY pissing me off, just having to listen to him play Halo 3. He literally just said, "Just hang on the ledge, Dude!" and "Chuck a shit load of grenades in there!" Come on. It's a good thing we don't have real plasma pistols or missile launchers lying around "base" because there's no telling what emo-chic Laura might do.

Still Bitchy, But Better

Yep, I'm still in a not-so-good place due to Saturday's hi-jinks, followed by two repeat performances on Monday and Wednesday. The repeats were Hutton running out of the driveway into the street, followed closely by screaming Harrison, so I was able to follow the shouts easily and get the boys back in the yard before they wandered far. And our street is quiet, with mostly horse traffic from the stable across the street, which helps keep the cars from going too fast, but still, by the third elopement incident in a week, I was getting really tired of telling Hutton NOT to leave the driveway, NOT to run off without Mommy, etc. After yesterday's performance, I was in a very bad mood, jumping to woe-is-me conclusions that I wouldn't be able to go outside with the boys anymore, since Hutton won't stay in yard. I made both boys go inside and sit in time-outs while I called my BFF to rage and vent on the phone as she attempted to talk me down. (Thanks, Liz!)

Anyway, today I've been outside with Harrison a bit, and have lots more yard work to do. I really enjoy gardening in the spring and summer, and the thought of not doing it because Hutton likes to run...well, it's just NOT an option! His speech therapist brought up a tracking anklet. That's an idea. Or, I could just rig the invisible fence we use for the dogs to child levels. All right, I won't have it shock Hutton. Maybe just beep loudly and have my voice yelling, "DO NOT LEAVE THE YARD!" every time he crosses the boundary line? Hmmm....

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Today, while at the speech therapy office, I was reading a magazine in the waiting room, and turned to a double spread drug informational ad. Don't you love those? The first page is the photo of the happy couple, family, older couple, etc. enjoying life now that they have whatever drug is being advertised, then you turn the page and have at least one page, if not two, of extremely small print listing all the side effects and contraindications of the drug.

As I was flipping through, the words CHINESE HAMSTER OVARY caught my eye. It was just bizarre. It wasn't in bold or anything, and you know how small that type is, but my brain just knew those words were very important. I really had no idea how important hamster ovaries are to drug research, let alone those of the poor little Chinese hamsters.

Here's to you, Chinese hamsters and your tiny little drugged ovaries!

Laura's Life Lessons

Here's the first in what may be a recurring theme for this old blog. We'll see if I learn enough to add more in the future.


Tuesday:

If you have a big Thermos you filled with hot Starbucks mocha with whip on Saturday, then left in the fridge for three days, the contents will not taste very good on Tuesday.

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Tuesday morning, while attempting to get Hutton to speech therapy on time, I grabbed the Thermos from the fridge, shook it up well, and poured myself a big travel cup worth of what I thought would be a nice chilled mocha. That way I wouldn't have to take the time to make myself a hot one. I took a sip, and fortunately was standing by the sink, as the liquid nastiness came spewing out instantaneously in a very impressive spit take. My live audience weren't very impressed, though. Go figure! Imagine pouring clumpy yogurt or sour cream into a mocha and taking a sip. No, not a good taste. I took a cup of water in the car instead and bought myself a mocha at Jitters later on.

Mother's Day Funk

You may be able to guess from the title, that my Mother's Day was not all walks in the park with birds alighting on my fingers ala Snow White to wish my a lovely day.

Nope. Let's see, I started the day by getting up after Hutton came into the room asking for breakfast about 12 times. I fed the dogs, let them out, fed the cat, fed the boys, then made myself some coffee and oatmeal and headed upstairs to catch up on some email and file some mystery shopping reports. Hubby was still asleep. Yes, I was cursing him under my breath, but then again, I'm not his mother. He shouldn't have to get me anything for Mother's Day. Except that he should get me something in the guise that it's from his two sons, the ones I popped out in record time in intense, painful deliveries. No, it's OK, really.

Around eleven, Harrison came in holding a card. It was a cute card, signed by Hutton for both boys. Of course, I wanted to tell Hubby that he got me a very similar card for my birthday seven years ago. The birthday card featured a cat in a flower pot, and the inside read: "For your birthday, I grew you a cat!" The Mother's Day card featured a different picture on the front -- this time it was a kitten in a pot, and it said, "For your Mother's Day surprise, I grew you a cat." Still, a cute card and Hutton wrote "Love, Hutton Harrison" inside. So, I tried to be happy.

The funk part of my day was really just my being depressed about Saturday's big mishap. I had been doing so well being positive about Hutton's progress, and looking forward to his doctor appointment this Friday, when I hope we'll take the next step in his biomedical treatment for Autism -- chelation to get rid of all the heavy metals he has floating around in his body. But, after Saturday, the "positive wind" got knocked out of me, and I'm back to my cynical state, thinking about having a son who can never be let out of my sight, let alone function in the "neuro-typical" world.

So, after stewing most of the day, I decided to break out of my funk and took the boys shopping. Well, plant shopping. I really don't think shopping with boys in general does anything to break one out of funk. It can get you in a funk, though!

I drove to Costco, but they didn't have any fuchsia baskets left, so I headed to a local hardware store that has lots of plants, and Harrison and Hutton helped me load up the cart with flowering plants, a blueberry bush, a lilac, and the piece de resistance, a fountain, featuring a dog whose mouth opens and closes as the water pumps through. Hutton and Harrison both loved it, and I even got it for 10% off, since the display was the last one the store had.

Yes, for some reason, spending money always cheers me up. But, I wasn't as cheerful as I'd been Saturday morning, when I went out to do some solo mystery shopping, and while I was at the mall, picked up a cute blouse and pants for myself on sale. Nope, that Saturday afternoon event seemed to put the "shopping is fun!" cure-all into perspective for me.

After helping Hutton with his homework, and seeing how amazing he is at counting and writing numbers (he now knows how to count by fives up to 100!) I felt a lot better. Then I tried to get him to drink a supplement-laced chocolate banana smoothie with dinner, and when he refused, I was in an angry place. Oh well, the cycle continues.

Happy Mother's Day everyone!

Happy Birthday? Or Lapse in Security

This afternoon, I took the boys to a birthday party. It was my friend's son's sixth birthday, and Hutton had been very excited when I told him about the party earlier this week. Of course, he was probably thinking, "Birthday = Cake" as that was the situation at the last party we attended. That was an infraction filled day a few months ago (infraction meaning an item not on Hutton's allergy-free diet, or Doritos, pretzels, M&Ms, corn syrup laden "juice" boxes and candy, and a regular gluten and casein-filled chocolate cake).

Fortunately, today's party had some GFCF foods Hutton could eat, as well as two bouncy houses set up in the backyard, along with the regular backyard features of a trampoline, a swingset and a tree house. Within minutes, Hutton was joining some other boys in the rather intense tree house, but he made it up with no problems. A few minutes later, "The Bubble Man" was getting ready to perform, so I called Hutton down, and he managed to scramble down on his own.

The Bubble Man was a hippie whose focus was on driving home to the kids the importance of cheap toys from the thrift store (most of his bubble paraphanelia was made from reused trash or thrift store goods) but spent a bit too much time wishing we were back in the 90s. At one point he brought up compact flourescent lights, and I yelled out, "Those have mercury in them!" and my friend Amy and I talked about how if you break one in your house, you need a hazmat team to clean it up. Bubble Man didn't really have a good comeback for that, but he was a good bubble maker.

Harrison was laughing and enjoying the bubbles, as was Hutton. At least for a few minutes. Soon enough, though, he started saying, "Let's go. Be finished." I told him we'd be done soon, but he wandered off towards the tree house. I watched The Bubble Man for another minute, before taking Harrison to go check on Hutton.

Was he in the tree house? No, he was not in the tree house.

Was he jumping on the trampoline or in the bouncy houses? No, he was not.

Was he inside the house? Not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. Not in the bathroom. Not in the play room. How about the laundry room? Nope. The dining room? Nope. The upstairs bedrooms? Nope, nope, nope. Harrison was tagging along behind me, saying, "Hutton's hiding! Let's find Hutton!" as I grew more anxious by the moment. I went outside and looped around the yard again, rechecking. Then through the house, checking closets. I went out to the bubble action area and told my friends that Hutton was gone, then walked to the back of the yard to yell for him and search in the neighbors' yards.

Harrison was still tagging along, saying, "We're looking for Hutton! Hutton's gone! He's hiding!" as I attempted to not get frantic. I got scratched up by briers climbing through overgrowth to get to the neighbors and ask if they'd seen Hutton. (Don't worry: I lifted Harrison over the briers, so he didn't get hurt!) Other parents at the party fanned out to look for Hutton as well. I wandered over to a neighborhood behind the party house, and a very concerned little girl and her brothers told me they had heard already and were looking for Hutton. By this time, I was trying not to cry, but wasn't succeeding. I wandered through yards, asking anybody I saw if they'd seen a little boy.

Giving up, I walked back to the party house, with trooper Harrison still by my side. The party hostess told me she'd called the police and they were on their way, but no missing children had been found. Just then, a police SUV pulled up, and I walked over to talk to the officer getting out. I was about to give him Hutton's description, when he said, "So, is this little guy with you?" and opened the back door to present Hutton happily sitting in the backseat. I immediately started crying and mumbling, "Jesus Christ!" and assorted other things. Apparently Hutton had run down to the busy street a mile away and someone had grabbed him before he got into real trouble. Just typing it makes me cry and repeat, "Jesus Christ!" as my heart starts racing again.

Afterwards, Hutton enjoyed some GFCF cupcakes and fruit while the birthday boy opened gifts, then Hutton and Harrison jumped on the trampoline. I muttered to my friend, "Yeah, now he wants to jump on the trampoline. It wasn't nearly as interesting as the traffic lights a little while ago!"

Why did he run off? Was he trying to get home? Did he really want to see a traffic light? Did he just want to freak Mommy out as an early Mother's Day gift? Who knows! The flight of the autistic child is nothing new. (It's called elopement, though unfortunately, it's not nearly as romantic in autistic kids as it is in young couples running off to get married.) In fact, a few moms at the party had stories of their own lost, and often naked, autistic kids. And Hutton has run off before, but it hadn't happened in so long (two years?) that I thought that was one worry I could put to bed. I guess not! Time to get out the ID bracelet and make Hutton wear it again!

Camera Not-here-a

The other day, Hubby, the boys and I were running errands, and our final stop before heading home was Costco. Everyone's fave, right? Darn, I wish I'd seen those hanging fuchsia baskets before Hubby got to the checkout lane.

Anyway, as we were driving away, we passed a lot that is quite swampy, and Hubby pointed out a beautiful red wing blackbird sitting on a fence post, with it's wings all puffed out. "Aww! Pretty!" I said. I really do like it when Hubby shows his "sensitive side" like that.

Just a few minutes later, Hubby stopped quickly in the middle of the road, behind another car also stopped short. I gave him a questioning look, and he said, to me and the boys in the back, "Look at the duck and the ducklings!" Sure enough, a mama duck was leading her little ducklings across the road in front of the car in front of us. Very "Make Way for Ducklings". This time I said, "Awww! Cute!" Then I asked Hubby if he remembered the names of the ducklings I had as a child. (He's heard this story probably 22,000 times, but you never know if he's actually listening when my gums start flapping.) Amazingly enough, he said, "Uh, Flebster and Webster." I graced him with my widest smile and another, "Awww!"

I'd forgotten about these bird watching in the car incidents until this afternoon, when I pulled up to the bus stop to wait for Hutton. I looked over at the fence across the street and saw a beautiful bird with a scarlet throat, and wondered what it was. Then another bird of the same species flew up and they were "talking" to each other. I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but they were too far to get a good shot, and they flew off when I got out of my car. So, I'll have to throw in some random pics I found online to illustrate, since I didn't have a camera for any of the above stories. Well, except for this:

Yep, those are the amazing Flebster and Webster in the cage my dad made for them, before they were big enough to be released in our pond. (There were snapping turtles that would get the little ducklings.) And check out that cool feathering action on 8-year-old Laura's hair! (But please ignore the tight lavender pants pulled up a bit too high.) Flebster and Webster (yes, I came up with those names myself!) were Rouen ducks, and they followed my around in the yard wherever I went. Awww! I miss them.

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While looking for photos to add to this entry, I found this not-so-lovely story. Jeez.

Time to Post

Haven't done that yet this week. Hmm. Guess I've been "busy" or something.

This week, Harrison and I have checked out a couple of preschools for next fall. This is something good mothers who are top of things did in February. Oh well. It's better that Harrison finds out sooner rather than later that his Mommy is a Slacker. I signed him up for a good "safety school" and have him on the wait list at the school I liked best so far. If nothing else, the safety school has a nice playground. Tomorrow we visit another school, and then I'll decide if the third school is worth paying another $50 or so to be waitlisted for.

This morning Hutton had his ABA meeting at the UW, instead of regular time of Friday morning. Wednesday morning was twice as sucktastic, as I had to get his lunch and school snack packed this morning as we were going to go straight to school after ABA. So, as I scrambled around getting lunch ready, and tried to remember to bring insurance forms to be signed, the notebook I always forget, etc., time was slipping away. Got in the car five minutes late. Listened to the story of a broken water main by the UW on the radio. Cursing under my breath that this would mean worse traffic on the other end of the lake. Of course, traffic was bad on the homeside as well. Finally got to the UW, just five minutes late, and see the horrific sign, "S1 Parking is FULL." I literally screamed. S1 Parking is the lot that is closest to the ABA clinic. I had no idea where to park. There was a sign redirecting me, and I pulled into a garage that was for faculty only. Reverse, search for more parking signs. After driving three blocks away from the ABA clinic, I saw a sign for hospital parking. Great. Ten minutes later we're in the hospital, trying to figure the best way to get on the south side where the ABA clinic is. Fortunately the guy at the front desk gave us easy directions and we managed the long walk through the hospital, down lots of steps through the "Garden Haven" and across the S1 parking lot (DAMN YOU!) in not too much time. We arrived in our meeting room a mere thirty minutes late, and by then the steam has managed to escape through my ears in several sharp bursts of anger, in which I would follow my howls with, "Hutton, I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at the SITUATION." I did lots of mumbling to myself about how much I hate the UW, hate paying $11 for parking when the lot isn't full, hate having to walk through the smurfing hospital, hate having to go to the UW every smurfing week for ABA or "Social Group" (yeah, we get to go to the UW again on Friday. Yippee! Can't wait to see if S1 parking is full!), hate, hate, hate.

After the meeting, my "shortcut" through the hospital added another five minutes or so to our already too short time to get Hutton to school. We were only ten minutes late for that, though. I got a tardy slip in the office (glad I don't need one of those for everything else I'm late for!) and apologized to his teacher in person for Hutton's peeing in the playground sandbox yesterday. She was actually nice and made a joke about her own boys getting in trouble for peeing outside at a neighbor's house. Guess being male and having the ability to pee anywhere isn't always an advantage in the socially acceptable realm of life. (But it helps if you're a trucker, I hear.)

So, now I'm home and using the magical PBS Kids to entertain Harrison while I get paper work sorted and try to figure out whether $700 to clean the roof is worth it. What's the worse that can happen? Our roof rots, leaks, falls apart and everything in the house is ruined? Hmm, probably need to get the roof cleaned. Ahh, I love being a housewife!