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Stormy Weather

From Jul 1, 2011

If I forgot how change affects my son, the transition to summer reminded me.

This spring, my son attended two preschools. One school (Reeds Ferry) provided Tyoma with services for autism while the other school (Mastricola) focused on typical kids.

His "typical" school had their goodbye party first. The modest social gathering opressed me. It was loud and chaotic. My heart went out to Tyoma, who has forty years less experience dealing with noisy gatherings.

Parents politely jostled for good video recording positions as the children lined up for awards and song-singing. I suddenly realized why Tyoma did not want to go to "typical" school this week. The award ceremony and five song show stressed him out. I captured jerky video of him staring into space and picking his nose. He was a trooper.

Afterward, I exchanged banal pleasantries with fellow moms, ate a polite cookie, and located Tyoma. I saw the "aaaaugh" behind his eyes. Two pleasantries later, we tiptoed out of the building 40 minutes early. The two of us went home and built a soft fort out of quilts and pillows.

The following week, my son's tears began. Tyoma realized that school with Ms. Jerri would end soon. His best buddy and greatest teacher of all time would no longer be there to guide him. Ms. Jerri has been with us since the first months of his diagnosis. Tyoma loves her deeply.

Tyoma processed his strain by asking odd, compulsive questions:

"If you have a level one tornado, what toys do you bring to the basement? And what toys do you bring if the tornado is level two?"

"If there is a power outage, can I leave my room? What if there is a power outage, and I have to go potty? What level of power outage means I can't go potty?"

"Why do people bring watermelons to parties? Watermelon is a negative level treat. That means you should go home."

Levels and concrete plans help Tyoma process information. Each layer of rules is a roadmap that we build together. We detailed plans for power outages, tornados, and excusing ourselves early from school parties.

Despite my careful interventions, simple tasks eventually turned into power struggles. Tyoma's socks and shoes fit screamingly tight. We had to re-learn the importance of staying buckled in the booster seat. I confiscated projectiles before any car ride.

Tyoma's unpredictability disorganized me. Part of the day, he would be being smilingly sweet and angelic. Then, a wrong word or sequence of events would unleash a fiendish slew of mischief-making. Objects plummeted down the toilet. Sinks overflowed and a whole bottle of Palmovie dish soap vanished.

I wish Tyoma would schedule his meltdowns, so we can get through them in an orderly fashion. I want to know the level of meltdown he plans to have. An email suggesting rational compromises would be nice. I'd also like text reminders, alerting me of the foolish things I do that make matters worse.

Alas. I am simply a grown-up version of my son, frustrated by change and a lack of predictability. Time for me to create my own lists of triggers, levels, and plans.

Forecast improving.

We Shaved The Kitty!

I've always been wary of cats. When my husband suggested we get one, I balked. Cats are fluffy. I hate fluffy. When we had a chow mix, I personally shaved her to the "needs sunscreen" level every three weeks. My aversion to wooly textures causes me much squirming and hand washing.

If cats came with reptile skin and ornate bumpy patterns, I'd own a fifteen acre kitty farm. But, they don't, so adding one to our houshold two years ago was a big deal. I took baby steps. I started with LOLcats. Fifty pages of cute captioned cats melted my heart. I began to look for the perfect companion.

I found her at the Petsmart Adpot-A-Pet Giardia Center. Pearl, aged five, was not the loveliest cat, but she had extra toes, snaggly teeth and a sweet disposition. When I met her for the first time, she shed clumps and handfuls of white fur. The Animal Rescue staff assured me it was due to stress. She'd been at the center for months. I loved her. Instantly. She purred and rubbed on me, and I shook off the hair without thinking.

So, the cat my husband wanted became the cat my husband complained about. Kitty Pearl does not excel at grooming. I brush her, but I cannot tackle the dense fur on her bottom or poochy tummy. Every morning, cottony clouds of kitty fur breeze across our wooden floor.  I prefer to groom Pearl professionally, but it is expensive. Saturday morning, a cup and a half of kitty hair clumps greeted us.

My husband and I bickered over what to do. We settled on a butt and belly shave. Pearl was sweet and compliant through the whole process. Egor held her as I shaved off two quarts of hair. We removed the bulk of her problem fur.  When she sat or laid down, you could not tell she's been trimmed. Otherwise, she looked as if she sported a scruffy tutu.

This morning, we woke up to find the same quantity of fur littering the floor. Perplexed, my husband speculated that she must have a plastic bag of fur she scatters just to vex us.

Sleeplessness

Every now and then, the nightmare factory sends my son a humdinger. Tuesday night, Tyoma woke us up shouting “I have a bad dream! I have a bad dream!” I slogged to his room to cuddle him back to sleep. With the hysteria only a four year old can muster, he proclaimed:

“You know what’s the worst nightmare? A frog with three colors—green, red and black. Red is the worst color, because it means stop. And I don’t want to stop!”

I expected monsters, farm animals, or even a birthday party to be the subject of his nightmare, not a colored frog. I reminded myself  that dreams don’t need to make sense to be horrifying. We banished his toy frog to the laundry room and I settled him down to sleep. In minutes, his breathing became regular. Yay!  Five minutes later, he rolled over. Five more minutes passed. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed him staring at me inquisitively. I opened my eyes. He informed me:

“You know, all frogs are not bad. Just the ones with red on them…”

I had many options. Being me, I did a statistical analysis of previous nightmare incidents. I included Tyoma’s distress, time of morning and my need for sleep as variables. I decided to give him five more minutes of cuddles and let him read himself to sleep. I miscalculated. An hour later, I hovered on the jerky borderland of sleep. The knocking began.

“It’s time to wake up, guys. It’s already light outside. It’s time to wake up!”

Our little rooster had spied the first glimmer of dawn at 4:30. I had to admit, despite the bad dreams and early hour, T was impeccably polite. Papa took him back to his room as I feigned sleep. At 5:30, Tyoma returned.

“Guys! It’s time to get up! Guys! It’s very light outside.”
*pause*
“Mama...Mama, I’ve read all the books in my room. It’s time to get up.”

Thus, our day started. I cooked French toast and Tyoma read science books. T remained angelic and sweet all morning, and to my surprise, after school as well. At 6:50 pm,  he conked out, snuggled next to me on the couch. His resilience and good humor surprised and pleased me. If only I could grasp that courage at will. I would have slept better that night.

I was too tired to sleep. Insomnia usually starts with my brain grinding in obsessive, doomed circles. Wednesday night, my body felt twitchy and restive. My blood prickled, as if it wanted to escape and whirl around in a margarita machine. Pacing did not help and even the Weather Channel did not soothe me. I considered Temple Grandin’s squeezing machine. Perhaps I could invent a spinning gadget to propel me into tranquility. I vividly imagined the device, but lamented my inability to make one quiet enough to use at home.

At last, I decided to visit Cute Overload. If your mind is filled with fuzzy goodness, eventually your body has to relax. Then I hit upon the ultimate relaxer:




I adore Simon’s Cat. The simple line drawings and kitty mischief are a balm to the soul. I made it back to bed around midnight and had monochrome kitty dreams.

A Touch of Anxiety

I woke up hyper and happy. My husband chased me out of the kitchen to eat breakfast in peace--I had been annoying him with songs about how wonderful his hair smelled. I bombarded him with dish towels at him from the TV room. Egor harumphed off when I did my recycled pepsi can dance, so I performed for the kitty instead. I need to remember that good moods do have a downside. An abnormal happy morning mood usually precedes abysmal afternoon anxiety.

I was excited and nervous over Tyoma's upcoming day at the beach with our  respite worker. At first, I balked at a beach outing, but I reconsidered. If Egor and I took him, we would be burned out by the end of the day. Ashley is a professional skilled at helping kids on the spectrum do new things. She has the skill and brain wiring to turn the day into a success.  

Nevertheless, twenty minutes after Tyoma and Miss Ashley left, anxiety set in. Images of car accidents and tragedy invaded my brain. Ugh. The thoughts stubbornly circled as I folded laundry and picked up toys. I zoomed around the house until it sparkled, hoping for distraction.  I only managed to conjure more elaborate images of catastrophe. At last, I told my husband about my worries. "Ashley is a better driver than both if us. Tyoma will be fine."  This satisfied me and I quit obsessing.

Mom Goes Home

I said goodbye to my mother at the airport this morning. Each visit she seems more frail. Today, her hands shook as she lowered herself into the airport wheel chair. I wondered if emotion gripped her, but age, and medication were more likely culprits. We hugged and kissed goodbye. I glanced into her eyes and presented an automatic smile that I did not feel. Every trip, sadness washes over me when she leaves.

Mom’s month long visit lacked our usual adventures and trips. We did not hunt for lighthouses in Maine or haul her scooter to remote beaches in Massachusetts. Mom, Tyoma and I stayed home, enduring sniffly colds and endless rain. I missed getting away and doing something different. A change of scenery is invigorating, since taking care of my family consumes me.

Mother came to help me recover from my recent Asperger’s diagnosis. My diagnosis is a happy occurrence, however, the stress and excitement of the process left me overwrought and exhausted. I welcomed her help and support. The smell of home cooked meals again wafted through the house. Tyoma gladly spent time with her, leaving me time to read, relax and fold laundry.

In the evenings, Mom had many questions. The process of answering them drained me. When my son was diagnosed with autism, we realized that my dad had autism too. Accepted quietly last fall, Dad’s diagnosis of Asperger’s was an obvious fit. Seeing the condition in me challenged my mother, not only because women on the spectrum present differently, but also because I am her daughter.

In the end, Mother educated herself through books and websites, embracing my diagnosis. Although I missed our seaside trips, we both needed this time to reflect on my life and future. Now, I want those trips back, with all the joy they bring. A diagnosis has not changed who I am, but it has given me insight into how I can handle my life with wisdom.

My Private Face

I have two faces. Looking at my profile picture, I am coifed and painted. This is assembled for doctor's visits, teacher's meetings, and the occasional dinner out. In reality, this is who types the blog:

Two months ago, I would have been embarrassed of my scruffiness and filed this picture away. Now, I'm proud of my slightly combed, definitely unwashed hair. My lack of make-up reflects a sensible woman, and even my discount watch is a statement of pragmatism.  Around the house, I wear my regulation comfy clothes and simple hairstyles. Out there, I fret over appearing appropriate and agonize over details of my attire.  I do want to look pretty, but I don't  need to be squeezed and painted into attractiveness.

Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg's slide show inspired me to share photographs. One person's bravery can give courage to many. Seeing her childhood photos sent me on a personal expedition. What would I find? Although I started out looking through childhood pictures, I ended up focusing on my adult snapshots. I learned more about myself than I expected.  After the jump, a few more pictures for you!

Awwww!

My sweet little guy! You can see eraser marks where T wrote "Love Mama," on the second page.  Tyoma wrote in his ornate made-up font "Love Mama" but they made him erase it. Sads!

And yes, I really do love Malt O'Meal! I don't mind eating the same thing for days on end. You can fix an absolute VAT of Malt O'Meal and it will last you for days. Right now, I'm eating the ultimate easy food, Kix cereal!

Fun With Saifun

I think the stomach bug that hit Sunrise Daycare finally ignited my poor sad GI tract.  Mom came down ill early yesterday afternoon and I crashed at dinnertime.  I am pleased to report I fixed not only dinner, but E's lunch for tomorrow as well. Yay me!

Let me tell you a little cooking secret. Saifun noodles are not the same as rice vermicelli:

Rice Vermicelli





Saifun



Saifun, or cellophane noodles, are made from mung beans. You find them in dishes from China and Southeast Asia.  Rice vermicelli is also from China and has a delightful, firm texture. I could eat a gallon of rice pasta in Chunky Prego sauce.

Wikipedia warns rice vermicelli "should not be confused with cellophane noodles."  This is because saifun are the slimiest noodles on earth. Incompetent cooking renders them unpalatable.

My dinner experiment follows:  I fixed my famous leftover tenderloin surprise by floating sliced pork in a bath of sizzling canola oil. After I finished making sauce, I tossed in the saifun.  The translucency of the noodles startled me. They looked wormy, like dangerous internal parasites.

As I stirred, the noodles undulated suggestively. I chased  a clump with my fork to inspect it further. The noodles evaded me in a faintly biological way. Brrr.  How to serve this to my husband?  I decided to use his mother's secret Russian cooking trick. I added more garlic and some red peppers. E loved it. Dinner success!

The Oatmeal

Created by Oatmeal

How long have I lived without knowing about this guy! ZOMG!

Flipping around on my usual sites, I came across a geek blog with a link to The Oatmeal's site. He's almost the Larson of the 21st century. After a day of agonizing fabric testing and seam searching (AKA clothes shopping for T) I was ready to be entertained by someone who knows the value of kitties and zombies. Yay!

Deathday

So how did my day start? I woke up early, bolted out of bed. My mind filled with things to do. I had lunches and breakfasts to fix, lists to make and toys to pick up.  Groggy from the massive dose of benadryl I took last night. I supplemented accordingly with tea.

I popped on the TV to watch the weather channel, since I start every day that way. News rattled on in the background, as I put together meals and tapped my fingers rhythmically.

Every morning, I have a special moment with the Local on the Eights.  In between Doppler radar segments,  news burbles in the background, ignored. Today, I noticed the words "Osama bin laden" and "killed." I truly did not think much about this as I fixed turkey sandwiches and cooked chicken broccoli pasta. A tiny "hmmm" registered but not much more.

Breakfast fixed and lunches packed, I plopped on the couch. Alabama is in crisis. Tornados devastate communities and kill over 300 people. I see the splintered homes that almost look like scenes from a disaster movie. I think, what is not right?—why this does not look real? I realize that hollywood movies have dramatic lighting, incomparable to the stark sun on raw shattered wood. Truth is ugly.

The Eights come and go. "Osama Bin Laden is dead, " they announced.  I cannot believe it. I remember 9/11. We were at AAA picking up our tickets for a trip to France. We watched with the staff as the second plane crashed into the towers. I was so shocked. I could not process the enormity of what had happened. I just asked about our tickets. I could not think of what else to do. In retrospect, it must have seemed incredibly selfish, but the truth was that it took me hours to process what had happened. When it hit me, my insides felt hollow and my skin tingled. I wept. I paced. I called my best friend and clung to her for the rest of the day.

Hearing of Osama's death was unexpected. As the details unfolded, I watched people celebrating in the streets. Maybe it's just me, but when I think about the loss of the twin towers and all those people, I don't want to celebrate. I want to sit and think and mourn.

Slideshow!

I need to post this before my scatter-brained self loses this!

I found the website Journeys with Autism a while ago and then lost it in the sea of new information I was taking in. I am pleased to report that I found it again via Nicole Nicholson.  I hope my brain will let me unleash something profound and moving in response, aside from, "The 70's were fantastic! Look at her cool clothes!"


ETA: Okay, I'm calmer now. Well, marginally. I am grateful to Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg. I feel less alone with my brain! Her school pictures and insightful commentary unleashed a flood of "OMG, that's ME!" She told my story, except for the details of her school system (blah New Mexico). I ordered her book "The Uncharted Path: My Journey with Late-Diagnosed Autism." It will take me a month to read it, because the subject matter is so volcanic I will reel off on spazzed out tangents every few pages. Bzzzz! Already getting excited!

Shopping, Ack!

Our local Walmart is reorganizing--again. I hate rolling in circles trying to find stuff.  The last time I braved the store, Tyoma melted down over the chaos in the toy aisles.  I can't blame him.  I could not find the qtips today. Roll, roll, roll. Are they with the beauty supplies? No. Bandaids? No. Wet Ones Wipes? No? Are they on a oveloaded cart abandoned by the dog food? Yes. @#$%&*!!!

Shopping at Walmart does more than save me money.  It saves my nerves, too.  Multiple shopping trips wear me out and few stores have the wide open aisles that Walmart does. Plus, in the early morning, it is very quiet.  Well, quiet except for the hand-clapping back-slapping go-Walmart-go team meetings. 

This morning, I listened in as a short, tubby middle-aged woman read the latest sales statistics to her team. Sock sales went up 20%! (Yay! replied the team members, clapping) Women's bras were up 8%! (Yay! more clapping). Children's shoes up 15% (Yay! clap-clap). I held back on shouting, "Whooo-hooo!"  Their meeting seemed so festive.

I hear the clapping and yaying when I shop early. Usually, the manager is half-embarrased over the process, mumbles through his rigamarole and sends everyone on their way.  Today's tiny manager seemed to revel in her meeting. Were those louder than usual "yays" a result of her increased enthusiasim  or induced fear ?

As I looked for fresh sugar snap peas, I quietly yayed along with the team members, drumming my fingers to the rhythm of clapping.  I wondered how the team members during this ridiculous process and searched their faces for boredom or mockery. 

I saw nothing. The whole scene was a process, automatic, like chewing. Yay. Clap. Swallow. It was surreal. The blank faces of the team members were frightening, especially in juxtaposition to the tiny animated manager. As she rattled on nonsensical figuers. I realized that only thing the manager was missing was a reference to the Malibar Front and a "double-plus good" exclaimation.

Corporate America, keeping stores efficient and shopper friendly since 1962.  Thank you team members, for enduring mindless drivel so I can shop quickly, cheaply and at one place. Sigh.

Day Care

One side of a hypothetical conversation...

*dials phone*

"Hello, Sunshine Daycare? Yes. This is Lori Dexyz. I'd like to drop off our son, Tyoma, for a half day of care today."

"What? Cholera's going around? Hmmm. I'm pretty sure we've had that."

"Mmmmm-hmmm. He catches everything. So, what time can we drop him off?"

"Uh, well, I could put a guaze mask on him..."

"Yeah, he probably would pull it off... But that's okay. I'll just sanitize his hands before he comes home."

"So, 9:00?"

Heh. Motherhood a bit much for you, Lori dear?


So they didn't really have cholera at Sunshine, just a stomach bug. I kept the little guy home for three days, but ultimately he will get anything circulating around New Hampshire. Nose picking must be nature's great plan for a healthy, well-immunized adult.

Anyway, it was great to have a break, so I could write in obsessive little circles. Every sentence came out the same, and all my ideas were stale. Blah.

Despite my desire to be alone and write, picking T up from daycare was my highlight. I watched him run around the playground, circulating with peers in his odd but endearing way. Before we left, he said, "Just a minute!" and dashed off to speak to a pretty blonde girl on a slide.

"Lillian. Lilli-an! I wanted you to know that I am leaving now, so I am saying good-bye to you. Good-bye." He announced this with his best Carl Sagan voice, making me smile.

"That was my friend Lillian," he gasped to me. "You spell her name like 'Lilli' but with an extra 'a-n'" He added, almost out of breath from running.

As I hustled him off to the car, and he abruptly asked, "What do you look like when you die?" Goodness. I thus began a nerdy and slightly technical interchange about biological death, that kept us entertained on the drive home.

Rage Comics and Social Rules

The plan for an easy Spring break was foiled by foul weather and an outbreak of a stomach virus at our favorite childcare place.  I realize that Tyoma will eventually get whatever bug is circulating in southern NH, but I just don’t want to spend our vacation week sick.

Sadly, I needed to start my day with a bit of shopping. I won't be  shopping at Market Basket again. People swarm there as early as 7:30, leaving me  feelingly squeezed and assaulted.   inadvertent experience, I learned that singing softly to myself and playing keyboard on the cart handles keeps a number of people at bay.

After a day of shopping and   my attention between mom and Tyoma, I feel beyond brain dead.  Crashed out on my bed (hubby and I do have separate beds). I  up my little brain to my computer looking for entertainment. Enter Failblog.

Once upon a time I purused the LOLcat directory--cute, but glurgy. Failblog is worth a chuckle, but mostly I show up for Ugliest Tattoos. I can’t think of a more profound way to reveal your character than to display something permanently on your person. Looking at a gallery of shocking and delightful tattoos gives me a secret thrill.   the same sweet little rush I get when I see blue nail polish or a dyed goth princess. So I chuckle and smile my way through the absurd winged genitalia, disturbingly placed for public consumption. However, after the third Technicolor armpit monstrosity, it does get a bit passé.

So I pop on over to Know Your Meme (KYM) ,  to see what Bear Grylls is up to today. I visit rarely, but when I do, I really dive in.  While I never visit the anarchy that is 4chan or tumblr, I do like the whole Mad Magazine feel of KYM. It’s a guilty sort of pleasure that should belong to young men of a certain age, but it absolutely transfixes me.

So meet Rage Comics. I’ve seen the drawings, so I dedicated an evening (Saturday night) to learning all about them.  Last night, I noticed that there is an actual section at FB devoted to the comics.  So I must have read 150 of them.  they vary in quality, certainly, but overall, I think I have a good deal in common with the young men that make them. it seems that we are equally confounded by the same world and take pride in the same things. Liberating.  A mid-fortyish woman with the mind of a 24 year old man with nothing better to do.

I like the Rage Comics for their unusual blend of humor,  brevity, and poignancy. I like short stories for similar reasons.Direct and generated with agreed upon symbols Rage Comics make me laugh over something I share with a stranger.

And thus, my second search.  I finally joined Wrong Planet.  True to form, I lurked endlessly, not contributing a word.  But I found the most awesome forum, xxx. I read about seven pages of posts, smiling and nodding.  It felt so right to be there, knowing that I am not alone in being awkward and clueless.  Between the excellent forum and Rage Comics, I felt connected and content.

Easter Sunday

Peeps! With sweet little button eyes!

Our Easter was mellow, punctuated by ten minutes of frenetic Easter egg hunting downstairs.  We skipped candy and settled for toys in plastic eggs, conspicuously placed for easy retrieval. E got most of the jumping and screaming on video, including a cameo by me and my oily locks. I noticed that my comfy house dress is fading. Sigh.

As I promised yesterday, Mom and I took Tyoma to Wasserman park.  When we arrived,   a purplish and heavy aura loomed, the kind of atmosphere that brings hard rain. I was pleased to see that we had the park to ourselves--I half expected the place to be populated by celebrants of an  Easter egg hunting jamboree. T ran off to rotate giant number logs, and I spent my time splitting my attention between him and mom.

After twenty minutes, we had company. A couple arrived with two kids and a fat, slobbery lab.  I do like dogs, but they should be leashed in a playground.  The mother hollered at me, “Is it okay to have our dog here?”  I felt like hollering back, “No! And could you and your family please leave because your presence freaks us Aspies out?”  but instead I walked over and said, “My son has autism and if your dog approaches him, he might become upset. I am okay with dogs and will work with my son.”

Heh.

Tyoma spent the next fifteen minutes loudly asking questions about the dog.  When the dog actually approached him, he crouched into a ball and begged me to save him from the dog.  The family finally put the dog on a leash, but Tyoma continued his harangue.  “I can’t go down the slide!  The dog is there!”  “The dog is on the steps! He’s going to get me!” and so on.  "The dog has a knife!"  I kid you not, he actually said this. Embarrassed and a bit irritated, the family left. Then Tyoma asked me, “Where did the dog go?”  “To the beach, buddy,” I replied. “Hm. I want to go to the beach and see the dog.  I liked that dog.”

Sigh.

I think in Tyoma’s mind the whole thing was a bit of a game. He was anxious about the dog, but curious, too.  I totally get that and wonder how to do things better next time.

Froggy!

Update!!!



:)

Okay, now that I have a few minutes, a bit of an explanation. My husband has an absolute horror of toads and frogs--a very sad fact for bufophile like me. When we first married and a toad-bringing rain fell, I lost my mind. I ran squealing down the street, collecting toads in plastic containers. Not only would he not come with me, but he wouldn't let me bring the toads in the apartment. I planned to set them free in the bathtub and scream at them.

I don't know why I love toads so much. I suppose that they are the closest things to dinosaurs that I could catch with my hands (lizards are too fast). The fact that they generally arrive when it rains (whooo! rain!) is a bonus. I love their bumpy, gnarled texture and placid slitted eyes. The hop-plop of a toad fries my little brain circuits in sweet delight. I never understood how girls could squee over hamsters. Unsavoury, smelly, foul mamals. Blech.

But TOADS! Joy. I don't think the most vigorous coke-snorting Hollywood starlet could touch my toad-watching high. Poor souls, attending empty parties with meaningless music, fashion, and talk, when all they need is a little toad action.

Anyway, sixteen years of marriage has not made my husband less squeamish about frogs and toads. When he came across this video from his favorite guitar tutor, he had to share. So I share now. And only with great restraint, do I not share the toad videos I watched on Y last night--but a play list might be coming soon!

Breakfast With Ashleigh

Well, I plan to make 2011 the year of the friend.  I made a promise to myself to keep in touch with the people I love most and to try to do something social at least once every six weeks. Whoo! Let's see if my lame self can do this consistently.

Today, I went to breakfast with Ashleigh, a mother on one of Tyoma's classmates.  Two weeks ago on our first breakfast, I spazzed out, not knowing what to talk about.  I have a terrible habit of bombarding people with questions in social situations.  I do this because I just don't know what to say. Specifically, I quiz people to find something entertaining to talk about. I'm pragmatic about conversations and particular about what I find interesting in a person. I interrogate people at parties to find a mutual link, so I can relax and chat authentically.

This strategy flatters some, especially folks who have a grand passion lurking.  I feed off the positive energy of an eager speaker, and if we like the same thing, nothing else matters. Unfortunately, many are put off my intensity, give me the "Bitch, please" look and edge away. At a recent Twilight party, a girl physically scooted her chair from me, as if she feared I would grab her by the shoulders and shake her, asking, "Do you like rocks? Plants? How about zombies? Everybody likes zombies!" I think she needed more wine.

I really don't do well with small talk, except for the memorized pleasantries I exchange with cashiers and people I'm stuck in line with.  I remain intentionally uninformed on politics and sports, probably because the topics intimidate me.  I prefer conversations about odd or specific hobbies.  I relish strange details and vivid discussions. When I go home after my 90 social minutes, I want to ponder curious pursuits and why people crave them.

I avoid well-liked fiction like Twilight and Harry Potter, perhaps out of reactive stubbornness to their popularity. Instead,  I  prefer morbid horror and literature dealing with death, anxiety and depression.  Since my own strange ruminations focused on these topics for years, it is a logical preference.  I do like other fictions- magical realism and writing that is odd and open to interpretation.  I seek out descriptive and atmospheric pieces that create an internal visual trip. I feel so alien in this world that visiting a tense, ambiguous world validates my experiences in this one..

Anyway, I had breakfast with Ashleigh, a Twilight  and TV fan. We met last year dropping off our autistic sons for preschool. She is instantly likeable, the sort of person who dresses for comfort and loves to read books. Her loving and genuine acceptance of her son, just as he is, wins my respect and affection. I've been to her Twilight parties and cracked inappropriate jokes during screenings and met other girls who dress comfortably and like to read.

So we had our first breakfast get together a few weeks ago.  I probably have made her uncomfortable with my spazzed out interrogation and overall twitchiness.  Today, I managed to find just the right questions to ask, and we had a pleasant conversation. I suspect that we both construct worlds in our heads--I went through my vampire phase in 1991 (thank you Francis Ford Coppola!).

An interesting note.  I had posted on Facebook that I had not read any Harry Potter books in response to a list of books Ashleigh had posted. For my birthday, she bought the first Harry Potter book for me. It was unthinkable to her that a civilized person had not read one. I was touched by her  sweet and thoughtful gesture. She also packed up her  collection of sequels for me to borrow, since I was sure to love Potter.  Awwww.

I was gracious, but already anxious. How on earth am I to read fantasy? I couldn't make it through one novel of Lord of the Rings, let alone seven volumes of popular fantasy. I will give it a try, maybe I will like it. After all, Allan Rickman was in those Potter movies, right?

@#$%&*!!!

spellcheck is down and my new laptop does not have word. Grrrrrr!

Family Visit From Hell

Last fall we had the Family Visit from Hell. I had trouble coping with E’s mother (Tanya) being here. She came right when Tyoma's school started and she stayed for two months. Sigh.

Happy Birfday to me!

Hmmmm. Getting closer to my mid-forties than I'd like.


I woke up about 7:30ish this morning to Tyoma shouting, ""It's 8:00!!! Time for the birthday party!" over and over.  He was beyond jazzed. Yesterday his respite worker took him to the store to pick out a card and a little surprise for me. On the card, he'd written, "Wait until 8:00 breakfast surprise." So, 7:40 was as long as we could wait.


Anyway, my son has excellent taste. He bought me an organic mint chocolate bar. Dividing up a section for the three of us, Tyoma decided that it was his birthday too, and thus the largest chunk of chocolate belonged to him. Perhaps a teachable moment for some children, but not T. He was so hyper (and slobbery!) I decided that it was great to share the same birth date as my son.


The rest of the morning was me singing, hooting, and clapping (birfday!) while my husband gave me "take it down a notch!" hand signals.  I am not aware of how excited I can get at home. No wonder they called me "spaz" at school! I guess home is a safe place. Dammit. If only other people could mainline my joy! Nobody  would bitch or moan, just happy dances and whooo-hoos.


I took the killer baby out for brunch around 11:00. I really wanted to go to the Black Forest Bakery and gobble chocolate cake, but T did not.  I know that BFB is meltdown central--it's too cramped, crowded and hectic, so my birthday present to myself was no screaming meltdown.


The rest of our outing went pretty well. Nothing beats two totally jazzed people running around Toys R Us. Nevertheless,  I was completely drained when we came home at 2:30.  I'm looking forward to dinner tonight and some red wine.


ETA


Ahhh! Pinot Noir!  They were out of two bottles of the modest variety, so the birfday girl got a very nice bottle of pinot noir do enjoy with her meal. We ate at Giorgio's, a slightly fancier version of my L:as Cruces favorite, Lorenzo's. The loveliest part of the evening was the conversation with Egor.  We've been married 16 years and there is still much we don't know about each other.

Why Asperger's, Part One

It started in February, when I revived my Livejournal.

After Tyoma was diagnosed in 2009, I halfheartedly put in entries. Ultimately, writing in my journal seemed frivolous compared to my need to understand what was going on with my son. Instead of writing, I immersed myself into the study of sensory integration, Floortime, ABA, and RDI. I seemed unable to shift my attention away from reading, googling and getting the picture of what autism is. My internal resources were not spent on self reflection, which I considered a vanity.

Heh.

Babies!

see more WTF Pictures and WTF videos by Picture Is Unrelated

I must meet this person. Or at least the fellow who commented "Looks like someone has been huntin' " Heh.

I like odd little collections. The details make my retinas sing. I don't think I'd need a kid to buy those beautiful "I Spy" books. They make me want to search my boxes of little collections and compose pictures.

I like adore the "I Spy" books blend of novelty and repetition--picture theme is represented, say a city scene, and elements are composed from a mish-mash of materials. The cohesion of the piece is pulled together largely through color choice.

I'd love to rearrange Tyoma's toys by color palette-a box of primaries, split complements and analogous colors. Whooo!

Asperger's, I Got It

Too spazzed out to be coherent. Social history taken. Questioning. Weird repetetive fantasies divulged. Asperger Diagnosis confirmed. Holy @#$%.








OMG. I lost most of my twenties to my imagination. Sigh. Oh, my thirties, too.

Check this: Asperger Article

Serious Questions

My therapist brought up several issues that I have been contemplating for the past week. 

Good Grief

It's going to be one of those days.

And by that, I mean I need to use all my internal resources to figure things out.

It actually started yesterday, after Tyoma came home from school. I proudly restrained myself from my usual singing and hand clapping (I am happy to see him!). I gave him space and ignored his "rumbling" behaviors, using my own list of what to do to keep on track.

As usual, Tyoma flung off his pants.The nasty rash on his bottom had become angry, red and raised. For two weeks, I've been moisturizing the patch and applying Lanacane. Now it was worse, and he had a fever (100.9). I called the nurse who recommended he be seen today at 6:10 that evening.

Mentally, I calculated the sheer agony of an evening doctor's appointment versus the sheer agony of non-stop fretting over Tyoma's health.  When I  put off my concerns over rashes last year, Tyoma wound up in the hospital for an allergic reaction to penicillin. So, 6:10 it was.

Egor sometimes comes to appointments with me, since talking to the doctor disorganizes Tyoma (and me too!). Last night, E was in too much back pain, and I could not subject him to such a gruelling experience. So on the twenty minute drive to the doctors, T asked me every addition and place value question he could think of.  This helped organize him, but I felt greatly distracted as I I drove. My strategy--give answers and fake being interested. I am quite skilled at this!

Everything went smoothly at the doctors until she started to talk to me.  Tyoma melted down--no tears just wild behavior--tipping things over and tearing paper. I handed the doctor a notebook and asked her to write down information for me. It worked. T continued to act out until we were back in the car and everything was quiet.  His transformation into a saint was instantaneous. I might have aggravated beyond belief without my new sensory insight.

On the drive home, Tyoma was still a question machine, but in a placid, let's-be-friends sort of way.  He created interesting "puzzles" out of  a wooden block fidget and hummed to himself. I felt so stressed when I got home I wanted to scream, but I organized our bedroom closet instead.

I felt better in about twenty minutes and wnrt back to mama duty. After kiddo was in bed,  I made the mistake of watching House, MD with E.  How many times do I watch it and find myself too wound up to hit my target bedtime of 10:00?  About four times out of five.  Well, I was tired and just wanted to sit and "be" with hubby. The blaring special effects of my recent DVR movies (SyFy!) would surely melt my last two brain cells. Why not a little House?  @#$%&*%$@!!!

It wasn't even a good episode.  So what set me off? Poor House, being nastily berated for insensitivity, when it was obvious to  me that the poor fellow was simply overwhelmed by the speaker's crisis.  Did I personalize this? Yes. Derp, de, derp.  At 9:40, I was trying to fall asleep and it felt as my body was vibrating with tension.  I closed my eyes and the image of a red oscilloscope recording the vibrations of  my ribs appeared. I asked myself--if my ribs were vibrating--what did it look like? The image popped into my head and I was off :

I watched the rib oscillations and imagined myself being monitored and tested for mental and physical wellness.  The vivid vision fascinated me and I half slipped into a trance state, synchronizing the vibrations to all the bones in my body. It was almost a physical sensation and it rather freaked me out. I have always been able to close my eyes, deeply concentrate, and freak the shit out of myself.

Mind you, I knew my little hallucination was not real. It is my anxiety coping mechanism.  Instead ruminating over events, graphic and daydreams transport me to a odd, but more soothing place. Nevertheless, anxiety still intrudes, and the bliss of having odd thoughts turns ugly. I shook myself out of it, checked my email, and trotted downstairs.  I paced and watched Comedy Central until 11:00.

Me. Different Me

My gym visits are sporadic at best. The only time I routinely attended was at 5:00 in the morning.  The bliss of a whole gym glowing, but not bustling was precious and calming. I remember how much I enjoyed working out without distraction.  I would even shower and fix my hair, something I still must force upon myself. I'd glide through my morning and be gone before the first regulars arrived.

I have always hated being anywhere near the gym during classes. I might enjoy the "bumpa-bumpa-bumpa" of the music, but I could not bear the shouting of the instructor. I kept being pulled toward her commands almost as if I believed she was talking personally to me. Nerve jarring. The multitude of jovial chatting women waiting for classes began was a great thing to observe. I could often focus on cataloging them, organizing them. I have quantities of journal entries based on these observations. I think it was less stressful than the shouting instructor because they were far off and less intrusive.

But not always. It's a proximity and volume thing. Sometimes chatting people disorganize me.  It feels as if they are right in my face. Just to be cautious, I seek out the most remote exercise bike, away from the pounding treadmills and gossip factory by the sitting area.

Do you know what else distracts me at the gym? Mirrors.  Same thing when I was a kid.  My folks had mirrored closet doors and anytime I visited with them on their huge California king  bed, I'd stare at myself. "Whoa, look at me would you? I am so hilarious and amazed by myself! Hi! Hi, Lori!" Annnd, then the silly faces began. Mirrors got me more than a few time outs.

Maybe it has to do with faces. We do not have any photographs or representations of faces in our home, save for one hidded shrine to my grandmother. I always feelt that they observe me, it is infinitely distracting and disturbing.

Maybe mirrors got me into trouble not because I recognized myself , but because I felt alien the reflection.  Separate data streams. It's one thing to feel something and quite another to see it reflected visually.  The mirror was a giant puppet. Cause and effect. This smile inside makes that one there. It was so austounding that I could not think of anything else.

Now, I try to avoid mirrors--they invite me  to register every unsavory detail about my unwashed, uncombed self. When did this change? Hmmm. Good question.

At the YMCA, I know I can look away from mirrors. However, my morning gym schedule coincides with the special needs community's and we have some issues there. I embrace diversity, and I am not about to judge or condemn anyone for biological differences. But sitting on my exercise bike, next to a hooting-arm flapper is distracting. Partially because of irony. I am a variety of  hooting arm flapper myself.

Last week, I had the revelation a lifetime while cycling at the Y. "I am a woman with Asperger's," I thought. I knew. I realized!  Such joy surged through me! Involuntarily, I slapped my thighs and let out a whoop as tears started to fall. In an instant, I was back to myself, and looked around to smile at the world. I had startled the aging cyclist next to me. He shifted uncomfortably and would not meet my eager gaze.  Heh. I would have been mortified in the past. I wasn't then. It felt even sweeter, to be me. Different me.

Intense World Theory Of Autism

Aaaaand I'm off and running. I have pages of writing waiting to be transfered to computer and even pages on my computer waiting to make it to my journal. I was so excited over my birthday present (new laptop!) that I just had to find the perfect background picture for my header. And then the perfect font colors and so on.

Anyway, in my reading (Aspergirls) I found the perfect autism theory. It's called the "Intense World Theory." Naturally, I'm posting excerpts and re-phrasings and maybe some of my own personal musings. I'd like to mention that my father, who has Asperger's and is profoundly gifted described his world as being "ultra intense" with "light, colors and  noises so intense" that he couldn't think.  In his gradeschool classroom the clamor of students and the teacher was so overwhelming that he would rip pieces of paper out of his notebook and chew on them for relief.

I've written my own little stories which I will post later.

Self-Stimulatory Behavior, I Got It

Okay.  Deep breath.  I hope I can do this well.  I am writing about some of my little obsessions.  Watching my son, I have catalogued his quirks and oddities.  In video, photographs, and pages of text I have captures his essence.  Suddenly, I had an astounding revelation.  I too have pages of quirks and oddities to catalogue and disclose.  Here I go!

It all began with this link of characteristics of female Asperger’s traits.  Reading this list has been the single most awakening moment of my life.  I was very anxious over my fit with the male traits, many of which I do have, but some differences threw me.  It did not fit.  That’s why I sought out help.  My brand new therapist told me that women present differently, but I had never thought to have checked.

So I googled.  And here it is.  This chart is me.  Perhaps, for accuracy’s sake, I might not fit a sentence of two, but here I am.  Bless you, bless you, Rudy Simone.

I started reading the chart, saying, “Uh huh uh huh uh huh,” over and over again.  And then I reached the third column.  Midway down it read:

 “stims to sooth self when sad or agitated: rocking face rubbing, humming, finger flicking, leg bouncing, finger or foot bouncing”

And then

“Similarly physical when happy.  Hand flapping, clapping, singing, jumping, running dancing, bouncing around”

OMG.  Nothing I have ever read before was so accurate.

People who know me socially might not see or notice this.  I pace, rock, and flick, snap, flap and clap.  Many have commented on my leg bouncing.  “Spazz” was a school nickname, and actually a pretty good descriptor.  I could never understand why people were not totally jazzed about the things that made me happy.  If I got an A+ on an exam, I’d whoop and rattle my paper and look for someone to celebrate with. A fellow classmate and former best friend who also did well would look away and tell me to “Calm down”.

Nowadays, I still burst into song and make odd sounds when I am happy.  As I think about it, I don’t see others or even imagine others behaving this way.  As a child, I continuously made odd sounds.  I asked myself “why” for the first time today.  I savor the feel of the pressure and vibration in my mouth.  It is deeply pleasing and soothing.

My husband has grown accustomed to my happy dances and hand clapping frenzies, even when outburst of joyous expression lasts for ten or twenty minutes--that’s twenty minutes of “Blue-DUDE-blue-DUDE-DUDE-blue-DUDE DUDE!!!”  with a few raspberries and vigorous thigh slapping.  I am the only one I know who does this.  And I do it all the time.

I can’t imagine any of our neighbors doing this nor can I imagine them doing the finger dances I do when trying to organize my thoughts.  I have been repeatedly criticized in school and at home for my leg wiggling which can become reach startling amplitude.  It makes people flinch and stare.

At Southwest Counseling Center, my job was to help mental health consumers manage severe psychiatric illness.  I did well, but always fit in better with the consumers than the regular staff.  They valued me for my accurate note taking and ability to detect patterns in people’s behavior.  

Once I attended a treatment plan of a client I particularly liked.  I felt acutely uncomfortable with stone faced therapist “Mr. Jones”.  He was a stony-faced musty 1970’s Sears catalog sorta guy.  The client defended herself from his oblique criticism from therapist.  The kind of passive aggressive stuff that seemed too ill-tempered to be therapeutic.  I became distressed.  I did not want to be there.  I could not for the retort that came three days later.  

My agitation escalated.  Overwhelmed, I started rocking slightly and then I flopped over on the conference table, smooshing and rubbing my cheek against the cool melamine. As if my splayed out torso was not enough, my bouncing legs audibly rattled the table.  At some point I came back to myself, I sat bolt upright and bounced vigorously for the rest of the meeting.

Both therapist and client ignored what must have been a bizarre display.  The client, however, softened her tirade as if she knew and cared about my distress.  She basically agreed to whatever he said and the meeting was over quickly.  She never said a word about my “moment.” The therapist acted oblivious and aloof.  I took a disliking to him that has never dissipated.  I retired from SWCC six months later.

 What happened at that meeting?  I literally had no idea.  I've scratched my head over this for years.  Today, I know what happened.  The overpowering emotions got to me.  I liked the patient; I identified with her.  I knew she was off kilter but this therapist was not acknowledging her strengths, and I’d had quite enough of that in my life, thank you. I was torn between outrage and duty.

My emotions built to such a level that I could no longer physically restrain them.  The social brakes that tell me not to sing too loudly at JC Penney failed, and I had a little meltdown.  And I have been having variations on that theme for years.  Whew.  Time to take a break!

Research again!

I've been doing more research. It's amazing how intensely I can focus on something I like. I also picked up some self-help books, Asperger's From the Inside Out: A Supportive and Practical Guide for Anyone with Asperger's Syndrome, Living Well on the Spectrum and Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight: What to Do If You Are Sensory Defensive in an Overstimulating World.

Too Bright, etc,  is a book on sensory processing disorder. While not autism, it might explain some of the problems I have been having.  I digested From the Inside Out in an evening's sitting. It rang incredibly true, but I have to say, I don't think that I am as disconnected/rude as the people telling their stories. I function better. Also, the author folks seem pretty ready advocate for Aspergers. Where's all the social isolation and anxiety/depression?

Good reason to see a shrink.

Which is why I liked Living Well the best. Charts.  Lots of behavior charts and how to help use your strengths to make up for your trouble spots.  I like this approach best since it is not to far from what I did at Southwest Counseling. I will use this book whether I am on the spectrum or not. I have a definite pattern of strengths and weaknesses consistent with Asperger's, that's for sure.

 I feel so grateful and blessed to finally have some insight to my fool self!

First Therapist Appointment

Sometimes I get so hung up and obsessed over details, that I can't communicate the big things that happen to me until much later. It is just so ovewhelming.

I saw the doctor today and was a nervous wreck.  I could not look at him and clenched my hands around my journal to keep them from flying off my arms and escaping through the window. He was kind and compassionate and it took him almost an hour of gentle questioning and listening to get me relaxed. But I got there.

We left the meeting with an appointment for next week. I asked about my thinking on Aspergers and he said that we need to evaluate my social history and one other thing (I am so paralyzed now I can't recall). It was his opinion that I very likely do have Aspergers. He reminded me that women present different than men and that might help me to answer more questions about the diagnosis.

Holy crap.

Therapist

Well, I did it.

Yesterday morning, I gulped a lungful of air and dialed the Asperger’s Association of New England (AANE).  A fellow named Max smoothly answered the phone.  I blurted out my story in a disjointed stream of consciousness monologue.

Autism Spectrum Questionnaire

Sure, I took the Autism Spectrum Quotient Questionnaire. I took it a few years ago, at the suggestion of a fellow blogger from Livejournal. Since  "eighty percent of those diagnosed with autism or a related disorder scored 32 or higher, " I was surprised.  I scored above 40. Naturally, I discounted the test, but not before passing it on to my parents.

Mom wouldn't even consider it at the time, but I recall that I unearthed several more diagnostic questionnaires, (which I am certain to gather and post) and passed them on. Annoyed, mom couldn't bother with something "dug up on the Internet."  She didn't want him to fret.  Heh.

Dad and I are very much alike. He would have fretted. And we did fret over Tyoma's diagnosis. Asperger's.

And now, I'm wondering. About the broad autism phenotype. About my sensory issues, social issues and failure to thrive when my intelligence should have hauled me through. I'm looking for data, lists, surveys, questionnaires. I am trying to take all the disparate and strange bits of information about my life, my whole life and put them into a big picture. I am seeing autism. Or am I? 

I doubt myself  fundamentally. Doctors said,  "Anxiety, ulcers, depression,  Epstein-Barr."  So what is it? Without knowing that both my son and father are on the spectrum, I would have never though about Asperger's.  I'd be googling my favorite stuff, organizing, and avoiding cooking.

I need some one to talk to about all this. Someone reliable and experienced. Someone who's seen aspies and won't dismiss me or lead me astray. Someone who knows the difference between "typical" and "autism spectrum." I need to know if this is what's going on with me and if not what can I do to manage my life with my son better. I'm desparate here. Life shouldn't be this hard.

Theory of Mind

I founf an awsome article on Theory of Mind. Sure, I've read the term a bazillion times in D'oh I need to put my own content here--it's on its way.

Aspie Quiz

I am wondering more and more about the broad autism phenotype. http://www.rdos.net/eng/Aspie-quiz.php

Broad Autism Phenotype Quiz

In my research I came across a term that I think fits my place in this whole autism debate swirling in my head.
The broad autism phenotype (BAP) is a term used to describe a wide blanket of  social, behavioral, language, and personality characteristics that are not clinically autistic, but close enough to establish a pattern among those related to autistics. So, if you fit the broad autism phenotype, you have some problems and are perhaps quirky, but you are still normal.

I googled it and found at the ever reliable website for all your psychological testing needs (Okcupid)

On Autism and Mood Disorder (Bipolar)

Poor Hubby stayed home today, ill with the cold that wiped me and Tyoma out Monday. Dr. Google  decided Egor's "pulled hamstring" is actually sciatica, making both of us feel a bit older and fragile.
His pain hits him when sitting,  in his car and at his desk. His weekend guitar playing marathons might be the culprit. Sitting on our low profile bed, strums away for hour in a position that certainly looks uncomfortable.  Anyway, neither sickness nor sciatica seem to deter his guitar playing or singing, so I'm glad that he is taking off a day and enjoying it. E will consult a real doctor Friday if he is not feeling better.

I'm still mid-YouTube Project, uploading and organizing videos. I was so jazzed over all the organizing, I had  trouble falling asleep. Perhaps drinking 1,000 cups of tea contributed.

Life hasn't been all videos and journal transfers, though. I spent time researching autism yesterday morning. I half remembered literature about about depressed mothers and autism and checked it out. Curiously, there is something called the "broad autism phenotype," which pretty accurately sums up where our family is at on the spectrum. Am I diagnosable? Who knows, but I sure fit in on the phenotype.

Looking at heritability and autism, I found some interesting studies. The "gifted" type of autism, ie, autism where one can speak and has intellectual gifts (HFA/Aspereger's with high IQ) often presents alongside family histories of bipolar or major depression. Interesting. Dad's profoundly gifted, E and I are exceptionally gifted and we have depression and bipolar in both of our families. My dad's father was bipolar--in and out of institutions. Both Dad's mother and Egor's mother have major depression. My mom? Hmmmmm. Anxious, compulsive and coming soon on an episode of Hoarder's.

Neurodiversity. I'm lovin' it.

Would I like to change anything about my life? Be less awkward, have more friends? Not if it cost me my thoughts. I'll even keep my depression right where it is--manageable but omnipresent. I am glad for the reduction of anxiety and obsessive thoughts that Lexapro has brought. I can sleep regular hours and my life is not a 24 hour "Strange Addictions" episode, where viewers can watch me google hypochondriacally, ruminate endlessly over my own mortality and imagine vivid scenarios of the deaths of loved ones.

Below is the article I read with regards to autism and bipolar disorder. I have edited the article for readibility, you can find the article in its entirity here. 

Hyperlexia

An interesting article on Hyperlexia.

From Bright Tots: http://www.brighttots.com/Hyperlexia

Major Depression and Autism

This is a though provoking article I found on the relationship between depression/bipolar and autism in families.

We have an abundance of mental illness in our families. Depression, schizophrenia, and bipolar disorder seem to hit four out of five relatives in both my family and E's family. Very curious.

I suspect that some sort of neurological link exists. We know that depression and schizophrenia are manageable with medication. I suspect autism and "mental illness" might actually have some co-occrance and that the variation of manifesstations off autism and aspergers might result from the inteaction of a differently wired brain and plus variations in the levels and functioning of various neurotransmitters.

Could it be that our understanding of personality is not of a disease process,  but of a natural process created by gentic variation straight from our parents? Maybe.  It would be wonderful to relable "personality disorders" as some sort of a variation attributed to brain structure and processing.  For those who are social impared, or rather feel that there quality of life is impacted by their way of doing things ther could be wonderful news.  you could learn new ways of doing things more adaptive ways to funtion while at the same time maintaining your own specific gifts.  i think that this needs to be up to the individual to decide unless he or she is so impared that they present a danger to themselves or others.

Papa's Amplifier

Clingy!

After almost three days of outstanding behavior, I had high expectations for today with T. The past few Fridays we've had great success with outings, so today when the Clingy Monster reared his head I felt irritated and let down. Sometimes my son can be so baffling!

We started our outing to the mall with the usual complaints and requests to stay home, but with the aid of gummy letters we made it into the car and out of the driveway.  At almost every outing, we push over this hump.  Once I get past the prelude of protests, obsessive questions, and general mischief, our outings become fun and pleasant. Tyoma's anxiety threshold varies, so each outing I am prepared to brave a certain amount of bellyaching to reach the payoff. Today, he complained more than usual and reward of fun seemed rather far off.

I had trouble adjusting to Tyoma's inattentiveness  and persistent disapproval. I think I felt frazzled by the inquisition in the car over digital and analogue clocks. At the mall, I was taking some deep breaths and working hard to ignore the looks from the mothers of calm kids. During one of those breaths, I noticed Tyoma was more relaxed at the mall than last week, when he seemed a bit wild eyed. He glided over to his favorite mosaic of tiles, happily pointing out north, south, east and west (the mosaic looks like and octogram), smiling and seeking me out for approval.

 The walk to Chick Fila was stimulating. Tyoma pointed out sale numbers in store windows and eventually became so distracted by them that I needed to scoot him along. He came along obligingly and even waited patiently as I ordered for us. Seated overlooking the big mall clock we inhaled our respective meals. I was pleased to that he gobbled up all of his chicken and fruit with out my needing to nag.

We negotiated a trip to the bathroom for me (he hates the motorized hand-driers). In the bathroom stall he loudly asked me if he could flush away my pee.  I chuckled and said "Sure, flush away." I might have been embarrassed, but some part of my brain collapsed ten minutes earlier and I okay with it. Next ,we dropped by GAP Kids to pick up spring/summer t-shirts. There be trouble.

GAP Kids is a great store since their shirts are soft, tagless and have large neck holes. Oh! And their dressing rooms have two-foot tall numbers on them. A trip in the store is a treat for T.  Unless, of course, the music is set to "stupefy." Once inside, he started running around and touching everything.  His plan was to mortify me into taking him out of the too-loud store.  I knew this routine all too well.

At my request, the sales lady turned off the music and Tyoma recovered enough to look at selected shirts. It took two gummies rewards for patience, but he assented to the purchase of four shirts. He also asked for a frilly yellow skirt.  I replied that he can choose frilly things in high school,  but for now he wears boy clothes.  My exasperated delivery elicited a smile form our cashier. As an additional treat, he picked out two pairs of skull socks for mastering the art of putting on his socks.  I briefly considered looking for pants but discounted the idea,  whizzing out of the store for escalator and elevator rides.

After enough elevator rides to confuse me as to which floor we were on,  we left the mall.  Tyoma pleaded for a Toys R Us visit, but I feared over-stimulation.  We dropped into the nearby Barnes and Noble and had a snack in the quiet Starbucks cafe area.  I could see other patrons wince as we selected our seats.  I remained brave, reminded T to use his "Number 2 Voice" and saw everyone relax. Our snack was lovely and refreshing. T was calm and introspective. We  talked quietly and ate briskly.

Since Tyoma still wanted to look at toys, we dropped by the Toy Spot, which is closing in a week.  I should have gone straight home, but foolishly I went.  All had gone so well, that I forgot our initial high complaint level. The store had been re-organized and was populated by manic kindergartners and their bargain hunting mothers. Still, I stayed. D'oh. 

There was an inevitable meltdown over a "100" poster, which I would have gotten if not for the demanding way he asked for it. He was just too overloaded. We took a break, bought a "make your own board game" and went home.

T was cheery in the car and we set up a pretend race between us and papa (who was coming home early today) to see who got home first. Our evening was unremarkable except for a bedtime meltdown. Tyoma is rarely tearful at night, so I felt guilty for overstimulating. Sometimes I have trouble knowing just when to push and when to pull back. On another day, our outing would have been fun and energizing, just not today. I began to beat myself up, agonizing over my decisions and fretting that I made the evening difficult for the whole household.  Seriously, I can't be perfect all the time, but I will try to be more mindful of T's stress level.

Is it odd that I expect perfection? A perfect day without meltdown or conflicts? Look at my home.  It's about as perfect as I can make it--almost white glove clean. It is as organized as a home can be without being The Official House of OCD. I long to be flexible and forgiving to myself , but at the same time as I berate, I analyze and build an understanding coping with a behavior. I don't have a feel like other professionals--Ashley, Heather or Jerri. Is something not quite right with me? Why can't I tell what's going on as it unfolds?  Why do I rely on the data I keep, filed away and categorized for specific situations and not intuition? Maybe I am not too far reminder from spectrum myself.

Black Forest

We had a pretty god Day today.  I can tell when Tyoma is feeling well since he is so, well, normal!  I tell you, he is so different from Alex, who has autism as well.

breakfast with Ashleigh

Poor Dad

i've been a bit worried over mom's off behavior, why she has been more anxious. usually i'm just irritated with her without understanding whats going on, taking behavior as a personal affront really a reaction to some underlying anxiety.

so here's what's up.  I called her cell and got dad, who was in the dentists office. surprised, but not concerned . when i reached mom later that afternoon i founf out that dad had three teeth pulled plus a nasty abscess under them.  shocked and saddened and irritated.  mom has this notion that dad's low energy is caused by eb, since i had trouble with chronic fatigue years ago.  my belief that my cfs was actually major depression complicated perhaps by a bit of fevers in the late pm.

i know that i have a problem with major depression, and have had one for years and as i learn more about the autism spectrum, my diagnosed father, son i wonder if there is not a link and if i am close to the spectrum and some of its issues as well. that's another entry.

sometimes i seem to walk in a cloud of defensiveness do i misinterpret others behavior as negative because it really is or just because when ambiguity cautious read ambiguity as a threat maybe problems with tanya are misreading her behaviors as being meddlesome, interfereing, contolling actually trying to help can't rely on language to sort out issues i make a lot of assumptions which are not correct.

people stress me out and i feel constantly judged weighed makes interactions had takes time to get into a comfort zone.

Happy St. Patricks

I've sent this to all creation via email, so once for the record:


 

I spent part of the day tossing emails to Pat back in 'Cruces. I really miss her and this is her day.

 

Tyoma grumbled about wearing his green gap shirt today, since he wanted to wear this new skull T-shirt.  I paired his green shirt with some shiny St. Pa beads and he was thrilled.  His party was fun, but he came home tired and cranky.  I'm so please to report that he is putting on his socks with ease.  Yay!

Dragula!

Tyoma found my old minidisc player, complete with Rob Zombie's Hellbilly Deluxe. He wanted to try it out so I cranked the volume way down and gave it to him. Below, he is alphabetizing and renaming songs:



After listening for a while, he started to sing, along--"Hey, Hey, Hey!"

Whooooooo!

E's newest passion has been learning to sing.  He spent most of the weekend surfing over YouTube, checking out performances of his favorite songs by other enthusiasts.  I had heard some weird sounds coming out of his room last night, but I assumed that is was random tennis ardor.

So, tonight, after he came home from work, tyoma and I were sitting at the table eating dinner when he let walked in the house and let out a whoop.

E: "Whooooooooo! "
(T & Me): Shocked silence and stares.
E: Puts down lunchbox. "Whooo- Oh, sorry!  I've been doing these voice exercises all day.  The folks at the desks next to me must think that I've lost my mind."
M: "Oh. Going 'Whooo' is a voice exercise?"
T: Shocked silence.
E:"Yes! I saw it on YouTube! I'm trying to build my range."
M: "I see."
E: "Whooooooooooo! "

I heard the whoops at random intervals for the rest of the evening.  Tyoma, playing is his room while papa whooped, would yell: "Stop that!  Stop that singing!!!"

It was odd, especially since Egor was so sincere about his practice.  He wasn't self-conscious or the least bit reserved, singing out lusty "Whoooooooos" all evening long.

Elevator Animation

Tyoma dearly loves the elevator animations on youtube. He is particularly fascinated by the types of number displays, so when I brought out a peg board toy he hasn't seen for a while, guess what his first impulse is?



I have twelve more photos, which I will post as a slide show as soon as I get smilebox figured out!

Pathology

I wasted some time today with a Comcast On Demand movie, Pathology.  Pretty typical film, predictable and gory, but well-acted by a talented cast.  I especially liked Michael Weston as the villan. He has the creeepy psycho routine down pat.

While predicatble, I liked the character development. Hero/bad guy stereotypes have their place, especially in campy movies, but in general I find them monotonous and irritating. It was refreshing to see an uncharactaristicly flawed and nihilistic hero.  All of the cast did well, making the somewhat preposteous plot believable. The film was raw, but I could see the good and wounded side of the characters without having my intellect insulted.

What's Up

I am currently moving by livejournal to blogger. I like the editing features and communities much better. It will take me some time to move my 500 or so entries, sooo

Snow Pictures!!!

Despite the mountains of snow that we have had, it's been looking less than pristine. I suspect that all the blasting and rock crushing behind us is coating everything with a barely discernable film of dust. Anyway, a few inches of snow overnight freshened up the neighborhood.


This is across the street.


And this is to the left out our front door.

Questions

I am feeling a bit better today , cheerful at least. I took a ton of recycling down to the transfer station and found some cool books from the 1920s. The recycle grandpas watched me carefully to make certain I did not take more than my fair share. I suspect after I left a small scuffle broke out over the juicer I left behind. Those guys looked spry. Whole fruits must be in their diets!

Tyoma came home very grumpy today, of course, he had a fever. Have you every been in an irritable pissy mood and all you wanted to do was argue or bitch about Bill O'Reilly ? That was him. Turns out he had serious stuff on his mind.

Out of the blue he said, "Why do we have to die?"

After I picked my jaw off the floor I said, "It's part of the circle of life, we are born and then we die." (thank you Land Before Time).

T: "No but, why do we die??"
M: "Uhm. Well, when we get older, our bodies wear out."
T: "When will I die? When will my body wear out?"
M: "Ahh, uhm. Well, not for a long time."
T: "I don't want to die. I don't want to wear out. When will I die?"

Now I read about answering these types questions. Keep it simple for four year olds.

M: " We don't know when we will die."
T: "But I want to know when I will die. How old will I be?"
M: "Very old, sweetheart, it''s a long way off."
T: "How old will I be?"
M: "Oh, in your eighties."
T: "No. Nineties. I'll be a hundred and eleven when I die. And also, I will have 10 billion friends."
M: "10 billion?"
T: "Uh-huh. Right now there are 8 billion people on earth and they are my friends. When I die it will be 10 billion."
M: "Okay."
T: "When will my stomach wear out? Will I die when my stomach wears out?"

And so on. In the end I was unable to keep it simple, so I went on a monologue about how doctors will one day be able to fix people so you don't have to die, but he lost interest. I think if I give him a body maintenance schedule, next time he asks I can avoid the question "What happens when you die?" And heaven help me if he learns that accidents can make you die...

Dictionary, etc...

Happy 4.5 Birthday Clock

Please note, this is a 24 hour clock.

Ancestry.com

Today as I was updating my journal with a Tyoma video, I recalled that Dad's uncle was a Vaudeville performer. Of course, I got to googling to see what I could find out, and whoa, I was surprised. The only Miller in the Vaudeville listings is Emmet miller, a semi-famous musician, know for influencing country music. I couldn't find much more, but apparently he did alot of his performances in blackface. I'm a bit shocked. The Mueller's were abolitionists and it seems incongruent that a generation later we'd have minstrels in the family. Probably not him.

Curious, I signed up for a free trial at ancestry.com. I sucked me in like an immense blackhole. I spent almost my entire day engrossed in searches, trying to piece together my Dad's family. His three uncles were quite brilliant, and one of them had an "eidetic" memory like Tyoma. Of the other two, one married a Native American and disappeared into the mountains (prospector/trapper) never to be heard from again. The third wound up working for the Bureau of Investigation, (what the FBI was before it was FBI). I am very curious to track these men and see what became of them, especially since one of them might have been similar to Dad and Tyoma. We shall see.

Right now the most phenomenal thing I have discovered is the peculiarity of names a century ago. I recall childhood stories told to me by Grandmam, with such lovely sounding names as Pearl, Ruby, Olive, Della, Rose, Lillian and Ivy. I somehow had the impression that these named were unique to our family, but as it turns out, these were just popular names for the time period. Here's a great link for popular names for each year. Be warned, this site is addictive!

Anyway, I was quite surprised to find household after household full of iterations of these familiar names. I was also surprised by the size of the households, it seems that women had children until they burst. Thank God for suffrage, Bless you Margaret Sanger, Planned Parenthood, Ortho Tri-cyclen. What would I do with seven children? Lordy, what am I going to do with even one during winter break?!