An Opinion on April

April brings to mind all sorts of things. Easter, sometimes a really late spring break, showers to bring May flowers...

And Autism Awareness Month.

The second of April is World Autism Awareness Day, and there's a big push to LIGHT IT UP BLUE! and stuff. Will I wear blue? Nope. For starters, I'm not sure I own anything blue that I can wear to work and not break dress code because *gasp* did you see she's wearing a T-SHIRT?!?!?

Yeah, I work there. I'm fighting every fiber of my being to not go on a diatribe about how productive I would be in yoga pants and a t-shirt, but they tell me I'm not the boss and I don't get to make those decisions, so no t-shirts for me. It's so sad.

Anyway, Autism Awareness. I really struggle with this. I guess it's because when I hear the word "awareness", I feel like it's a synonym of "LOOK OUT! AUTISM ON THE LOOSE!" like you'll see biker awareness when it starts to get nicer out, because motorcycles and bicycles are ON THE LOOSE on the roads.

I guess I also get a little miffed because when you Google (it blows my mind that Google is a verb) "Autism Awareness", do you know what comes up first? Would it be a link to NAMI or Mayo Clinic or Vanderbilt or Children's Mercy? Nope. Autism Speaks. And do you know just how you can help "Light It Up Blue"? Donate. To Autism Speaks. Reason number two I won't wear blue. Not with a fox or in a box, either.

*Disclaimer: I am very aware (pun not intended) of the importance of research. However, as the mother of a child who is on the severe end of the spectrum, I know how hard life is NOW. For those who have gone before us, and who will come after us, research is necessary, but so is support.*

Donate. Not to a "scholarship" so a kiddo can go to a sensory-friendly camp in the summer, or so a family doesn't have to foot a huge medical bill, or can get a therapy dog, or respite care, or to make their home more sensory-friendly. Not to give families/adults assistance in therapies that are not covered by insurance companies. Not to offer to come over so that a frazzled parent can have some adult interaction. And maybe some wine with a friendly face. Or a nap. Oh....naps and wine. Mmmm.

Donate to Autism Speaks. Light up a building blue. Give money to an entity where you have no idea if it's going to help a child, adult, or a family who lives with Autism and the challenges it brings.

It bugs me.

Obvs.

Their website boasts 28,602 actions have been taken to shine a light on Autism! Don't get me wrong, that's fantastic. But let me offer a different perspective.

Autism isn't a new thing. It's not. And I can't help but feel like Autism Speaks (and there's more like them, they're just the big dog on the porch) is in the light while Autism and those who live with it and their loved ones are shadowed. Personally, I don't want a spotlight on my child. "LOOK! THERE'S AUTISM!" To think that in this day and age he will still be referred to as the autistic kid, rather than Quinn, really lights a fire under my ass. He is Quinn first. He happens to be Autistic. Just like he happens to have blue eyes and sandy hair. Just like he happens to have a birthmark on his leg in the shape of Australia. It is part of him, but it certainly does not define him.

In April, I challenge those who are unfamiliar with Autism to learn. If you don't know what a trusted resource is, ask. Autism isn't contagious. Well, I'm pretty sure it's not.

Do take advantage of events like the Candlelight Vigil for Autistic Children who Lost their Lives After Wandering. Ask questions. Spend some time with a family and watch the absolute joy radiate from their child(ren) just like it does from yours.

Don't just become aware, find a place of acceptance. Because really, that's all these kids and adults and families want. At least me and mine do.

Let's talk about Ex, Baby

I have been dreading today for a while now. Why would I be dreading a beautiful Spring Saturday, is what most would probably ask. Well, today I had to take Shortpants to meet his dad for a day-long visit. When I found out they were for sure going to be here, I looked a lot like this guy:

You have cat to be kitten me right meow.

Ex is married. I like her a lot more than I tolerate him. You see, our marriage ended less than smoothly, and while I will be civil - wait, I'm actually quite nice, I'm still angry. And hurt. And all ragey against the machiney sometimes. But his wife has shown me that she is level-headed, and I think we have connected as moms. 

I'm pretty certain this guy nailed how I look most times I think about Shorty's dad. I'M TRYING. Honest.

And when I get mad? I cry. Like a little bitch. AND IT MAKES ME MORE MAD AND THEN I CRY MORE. It really is a vicious cycle. And when I cry do I look like every other normal woman on the planet? Oh hellz naw - I uuuuuuuuuuuugly cry. 

If you took this face:

And put it on this face:

WOW, right?

Plus some red-rimmed eyes and some rivulets of mascara (that is SUPPOSED to be waterproof - thank you SO much, brand name withheld!), that's my ugly cry face.

Aren't you glad you know now? So you can avoid at all costs? Hey, at least I don't snot all over the place. You're welcome.

Oh. I digressed. A scosh. My bad.

Back to today - I had planned a day with one of my oldest friends; some yoga, some coffee, some lunch, some Marshall-ing (Love me some Marshalls deals. I didn't get paid to say that, but I'd sure like some free stuff... *cough*). We also watched Empire Records. HAPPY REX MANNING DAY! (And they say I don't have ADHD. Puh-leeze.)

I tried my best to keep my mind off Shortpants and my mind on fun, and I really did have a good day. And so did he. Even though he was up since 3 last night, napped for maybe 30 minutes in the car, didn't want to get out of the swings (I told him so! *oh no she didunt - YES I JUST DID) - the day went pretty darned well. 

Oh, alright. Time to fess up. See, Shortpants hasn't seen his dad for more than 30 minutes since Thanksgiving 2012, thanks to the Army and (what I like to call) choice. Meaning, he had opportunities to visit and didn't. Water under the bridge. (Or I'll drive myself certifiably loony.) Also meaning - he hasn't had Shorty by himself for more than a few minutes. Since he was born. I was in full-blown Mama Bear mode. This whole week consisted of fighting panic attacks, night sweats, not being able to eat, then eating my weight in Taco Bell. It was ugly.

And today? It went better than I could have imagined. Shortpants has been asleep since about 6:30, which bums me out a little, because with my work schedule I only really get to spend good time with him on the weekends, but we have all day tomorrow.

Am I friends with my ex-husband? Hardly. But I like to consider myself a good person, to do what is really right, and try (it's SO hard) to not make it be about me, but about what's best for Shortpants. And yes, when my boy ran into my arms when I picked him up, I may have done a neener neener neener and made this face: 

Exactly what this French Ken-ig-ut just said!

on the inside, where it belongs. <insert "being a grown-up sucks" whine here>

March 14 was Pi Day. And I didn't even have any.

I have been known to sometimes occasionally okay, ALL THE TIME go to the refrigerator drive-through to eat until whatever emotion I am currently feeling (and don't want to anymore) goes away.

Helpful? If I want to go up a pants size, sure.

Does this make my butt look big?

Fooooooood, glorious fooooooooooood... you've always been there for me. Never letting me down. Never really helping, but always trying your best to fill whatever cavernous void was begging to be filled. Never mind that the giant hole was imaginary, and my stomach (and pants) only stretch so much, I ate whatever was in my way to make me feel better. Not unlike someone who cuts or burns themselves, I ate until I hurt. I'm not sure why I'm using "ate". Ate is past tense. I've done this as recently as yesterday.

And every time I succumb to my urge to binge, I look in the mirror. Usually with tear-filled eyes. And I give myself Manning Face.

Disappointed Payton is disappointed.

Life is stressful. Period. Throw in some variables such as a husband, wife, a few kids, jobs, aging parents, saving for whatever, making ends meet, disabilities, school, social life (or lack thereof), and life can just be pretty damned overwhelming. Food has always been my comfort. I may sound like I'm joking, but food never talked about me behind my back. Food never made fun of me and made me feel like I didn't belong. Food never left me. We celebrate with food - your favorite meal on your birthday, cake, ice cream, ice cream cake, Thanksgiving, Christmas - FOOD.

Now all those years of cramming food , eating my emotions, trying to find solace in something I knew wouldn't satisfy me has caught up with me. And I'm tired of not just looking at the size of my clothes, I'm tired of feeling this way. But you know what else? I'm just tired! I commute. I'm a single mom. Shortpants doesn't sleep worth a crap. Also?

I hate working out.

Hate it with the heat of a thousand fiery suns.

I've tried to like it. I've tried the plans, the diets, the workouts, the shakes, starving, all sorts of other unhealthy shit, and I know that it's simple math - burn off more than you take in - but I. HATE. IT.

This is the face I make when I try to eat stuff that's good for me. NOT a selfie, in case you were wondering.

I hate thinking what people at the gym are wondering when I'm jiggling over on the treadmill, I hate assuming that people driving by me as I walk are making fun of me, etc. My brain says "Shut up, stupid, they're not thinking anything that has anything to do with you." My lack of self-worth says "THEY'RE POINTING AT YOU. THEY'RE LAUGHING AT YOU. CALLING YOU FATASS AND SLOB AND CHEESEBURGER."

I am not nice.

To myself.

To everyone else I encounter, I'm overly pleasant. (Unless you know me. And then you know. And those of you that have stuck by me through the years, you have my eternal devotion. But of course you already know that.)

Do you know who Kid President is? If you said no, please leave this blog and go Google his ridiculously adorable face. I'll wait. Listen to his YouTube clips. Really listen. Because this 9 year old is changing my life. KP reminds me that shit's not that bad. Being mean (even to myself) shouldn't be an option. He is smart, eloquent, and says sage things like:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. And that cupcake. Nom.

Pity party over. Am I going to the gym? YES! Probably not. Am I going to make better, meaningful choices? Yes. He nailed it. Life is tough, no matter what cards are in the hand you were dealt. I'm going to stop being mean to myself and make this life meaningful. To stop wishing days would hurry past and live in the moment. To dance about it. To stop letting the scale and my pants size define me. To trust in others to help me through whatever it is I have going on. To remind myself I am not an island, and I deserve to be content. Proud. Loved. Every moment spent sad, angry frustrated, depressed, etc. is a moment I could have been happy. And happy is what I want to be. I choose to be. And damn, that's powerful.

Where I tell Mother Nature to suck it.

It's been not exactly pleasant at our house this weekend. Or last weekend, for that matter. In fact, it's been akin to a houseful of teenage girls on their cycle being told that one of the members of One Direction (it hurts me to know that I know this crap) has gotten engaged - yeah, that bad.

Depending on where you get your information (and unfortunately, not everything on the interwebs is accurate. I KNOW! Who knew!?), there are two schools of thought regarding whether barometric pressure affects us humans.

Well, gang - I'm here to tell you - IT DOES.

Every time we have a weather change, Shortpants is a maniac. And not a maniac, maniac on the floor, dancing like he's never danced before, no no no... maniac as in he's as unstable as a wolf in a room full of sheep,

You'd think by now he knows what's going to happen when he tries this crap.

 as a Jenga tower in a room full of three year olds,

I don't even know what's going on here, but unless he's trying to move the blocks by osmosis,
 I'd say this is a Jenga Fail.

  as me when I've forgotten my Zoloft and I'm out of coffee.

Yes, I know this is Britney Spears. And it appears she has something caffeinated in her hand. However, we all know how well that worked out for her. Don't fret, I'm not about to shave my head. But I think I've rocked this facial expression a time or seventyjillion.

Here in the merry ol' land of Kansas, Friday was hands-down GORGEOUS. 70ish, light breeze, warm sun, the perfectest perfect spring day. Saturday morning? Overcast. Chilly. Okay, not the end of the world, it's spring after all, not the most predictable season. UNTIL IT STARTED SNOWING. <commence end of the world music> 

We woke up to an inch or two of snow. Which will melt off by today because the high is almost 60. Long story short - I know, too late - the shortest person in this house has been a hot mess, and I am out of junk food to soothe me.

Admittedly, that's a good thing, but damn, kid. You make this getting healthy shit HARD.

So, weather changes, compounded by me forgetting to charge the iPad, equals a whole lot of plans getting canceled. I didn't even mention the barfs on Friday night because that was minor in the cluster that was this weekend. Thankfully, there was not a full moon - oh wait, that was last weekend! 

In sum, Mother Nature could use a Prozac enema. Or hormone therapy. Clearly, she's menopausal. Or stuck in the terrible twos. 

*In searching Google Images for a picture of Mother Nature, everything I found were these absolutely beautiful, ethereal women or these sweet, soft grandmotherly types. I find that very difficult to believe, unless it is a parallel to the exquisite Tom Hiddleston playing Loki. Regardless, she needs to get her poop in a group and stop making life miserable for everyone. Agreed? I thought so.*

Where I remind myself I am not Julie Andrews.

I adore Julie Andrews. First off, she's absolutely gorgeous and a complete class act. I think she is just fantastic in whatever role she plays. And as such, I have aspired to be her at times. I'd love to spin in the warm spring sun, arms outstretched, singing "The hillllllllllllllllllllllls are aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive.... with the sound of muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuusiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!" Alas, I live in Kansas. Not that we don't have hills - WE DO, contrary to popular belief! - but it certainly isn't Switzerland. Nor am I a nanny of a musically-inclined group of siblings. Which is unfortunate, because I would love to be able to give that adorable curly-haired stud on Glee a run for his money.

Who doesn't want to frolic and sing? ADMIT IT. You know you want to.

Mary Poppins is one of my favorite movies. Julie Andrews is a BADASS in that movie! Holy crap - I wish my kid would respond to "the look" like she got the Banks' kids to do! She is FIERCE! And she has magical stuff! OMG! I want her carpet bag o'stuff! I want to snap and my house to clean itself! I WANT TO FLY AND NOT HAVE MY HAIR LOOK LIKE, WELL, LIKE IT DOES RIGHT NOW! I want a super cute young Dick Van Dyke to be all in love with me and stuff! I want to be able to put the maid in her place! I want a maid! I want a tea party on the ceiling! I want cartoon penguins to dance for me and be all flirty and stuff! I want songs written about me! I want every holiday with Kelly to be jolly! Wait. Maybe I hate her. I need to think about that for a minute.

Look at that bitch face. OMG. I only hope my "look" is a fraction of that awesomeness.

Irritated Mary is irritated. But Bert is adorbs, no?

I know I look like this. A LOT.

Teach me, Julie. TEACH ME.

Even though Audrey Hepburn is the face of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, Julie played Doolittle on Broadway. Had she been cast in the movie, there would have been no Mary Poppins, so see, kids? FAILURE IS OKAY. To thoroughly show my appreciation for Dame Andrews (you have to be a legit badass if the Queen of England says you are!), here is my rendition of "My Favorite Things" from My Fair Lady:

Not Exactly My Favorite Things

Sippy cups that I find under the car seat

With just enough milk to make a big, foul stink

Strawberry jelly on the curtains, you see

These are not exactly my favorite things.

Discovering all of the stuff in the heat vent

Counting all of the money I have spent

To replace all of the lost pacis you fling

These are not exactly my favorite things.

When you don't sleep

When I have to sweep

Up a giant mess

I start to remember more unfavorite things

And then I start to stress.

And then I look at your sparkling blue eyes

Your grin that can light up the darkest of night skies

The sounds that you make when you're content, you see

These are a few of my favorite things.

When you want to do nothing but snuggle

I don't worry about all the stuff that I juggle

All of my frustration and frowns go and take wing

Because you are my most favorite thing.

I can only guess.

This is an example of PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) for feelings.
PECS is one system (of many) that can provide a way for non-verbal folks to communicate.
Currently, this is not in use in our home, as Shortpants just isn't into it. Can only lead a horse to water... 

You stand in the middle of the room, screaming in a language only you understand. Tears are streaming down your face as you clench your hands into fists, shaking with emotion. Is it rage? Fear? Pain?

I can only guess.

You look at me with an expression that I can only interpret as "HELP ME. FIX THIS. WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SO PLAINLY TELLING YOU?" as the tears continue to fall, your hands continue to be clenched, and you continue to shake and scream and stare.

And I scream on the inside because I don't know what to do. I can only guess. And that guess, being so very important, is rarely correct. One in an infinite amount of possibilities as to what it is that you need different in this very moment. I scream on the inside until my voice disappears, to the heavens, hoping God hears my plea - but I can only guess.

You come to me, wanting comfort, wanting held; and then you remember. You remember that your emotions are directed at me, and it is my fault - whatever it is - and you claw and scratch and fight and bite and slap your way out of my arms and recover the expression that says so much, but I can only guess.

I want nothing more than to know the right answer: to remove guess from this equation that far surpasses my ability to solve for x; to be able to know exactly what you need, in the exact moment you need it, and to be able to provide it to you immediately - that is my wish, my hope, my need.

But I can only guess.

Poison.

As I grew up and have lived the majority of my life in Kansas, the Phelps family and their "church" is not foreign to me. I went to university in Topeka, and Phelps' followers frequently picketed my school.

This was something I saw often, with the exception of this kid.. Josef rocks my damned socks, though.

Fred Phelps has succumbed to whatever illness plagued him. While I would like to think that he died of a blackened heart and soul, what took him is not my concern. His death is not unlike any other. People will mourn him, miss him, and carry on the legacy (like the choice of word or not, it is what it is) that he has instituted. Topeka will always carry a scar, thanks to the Westboro Baptist Church.

I told myself when I heard he was failing that I was not going to acknowledge his death. That I was going to fight every instinct I had to picket this poor excuse of a human being's funeral and dance on his grave. As a former military spouse, I've witnessed his horde protesting funerals. Picketing a school and calling it's founder -who has been deceased for many years- derogatory terms is one thing; standing at a fallen soldier's celebration of life, chanting hate - that soldier who laid down his or her life to defend the right to do just that is deplorable.

The passing of Mr. Phelps does nothing. It does not erase the hate. It does not collapse the church. His poison has spread through the veins of the vulnerable sheep he has led. As a God-fearing woman, it pains me to be grouped under the term Christian as these people, but I do know that there is nothing that I, or any other living person, could do or say that will rival what that man has received when he attempts to enter the gates of Heaven. My God is a loving, forgiving God, true. But I can't imagine Him allowing the kindling of the fire of hate to receive anything other than the flaming pits of Hell.

It is not my place to judge Fred Phelps or his congregation. He has received his judgement, just as I will one day. Rather than sensationalizing this any further, I will make a conscious effort to be the best person I can be; to be an example of love, in the hopes that it becomes the antidote to the poison that flows so strongly through our country.

"Beloved, let us love one another." 1 John 4:7

Today's Dose of Perspective.

If I can read that upside down, it makes me like super Wile E. Coyote super genius smart, right? Sweet.

Working in the mental health field, I see a lot of different situations. Different backgrounds. Different cultures. Different diagnoses. Never a dull moment in my office, that's for sure. I just realized that if I didn't point out in what area I worked, you might have thought I was talking about WalMart. I just kind of blew my own mind right there.

One thing that is somewhat of a common denominator, though, is expectations. And I've come to realize that they just piss me off.

*gasp!* A therapist and mother doesn't approve of having expectations? No wonder she's got problems.

Hold on just a minute, external-that-was-supposed-to-be-internal monologue! I definitely approve of expectations. Just realistic ones.

I present the following exhibits to the Court:

*These are in no way examples of any of my clients. This is plain ol' comedy and common sense, folks. 

And seriously, like you don't know people like this? Read on.*

1. If you are the parent of a teenager, and you are expecting their hygiene to improve, you might want to consider taking a shower more than once every few days yourself.

2. If you want your kid to have a clean tidy room that is free of hazmat, you may consider making sure your own bedroom is up to par with what you expect theirs to be.

3. You parking it on your butt in the recliner with coffee watching a marathon of Hoarders while your free help kids do more chores than you do is probably not going to enhance your relationship with them.

4. Yelling at a child to not yell... I don't think I even need to finish this one.

5. After going through Acme Drive Through, you say "Make sure to finish your apples!" while you're slamming 4-5 french fries in your maw.

6. If you want to drop a few pounds to increase the ol' self-esteem, acting like every day is National Pancake Day might not help you achieve said fitness goal.

7. Expecting your children to have manners when you chew with your mouth open, talk with your mouth full, pick your nose without a tissue covering your finger, and adjust yourself in public makes you a moron.

I love pancakes.

I mean, like I said, none of these are about anyone I know. Promise.

Even with all of Shorty's limitations, that doesn't give me carte blanche to act a straight fool in front of him. It's not a "YOUR KID IS NON-VERBAL. DROP THE F-BOMB ALL DAY EVERY DAY" get-out-of-jail free card.

*Although it's tempting, isn't it?!*

Kids are not free-range. It would save a lot of time in the kitchen, both cooking and cleaning, so maybe I should look into that, come to think of it. But even when that kid of mine is busy doing God-knows-what, I'm teaching. He's absorbing and learning. Which explains quite a bit, actually... except him wanting to pick MY nose. That, I just don't understand. But I probably need all the help I can get, so I'll let that slide. Thanks, dude.

Guilt. Lots and lots of guilt.

I'm having a moment where I hate to even say out loud what I'm feeling. So I thought a much better idea would be to put it on the internet, where surely someone else has felt the same way, and then we can have a pity party of two rather than just one, because one is the loneliest number and all that crap.

I'm lying. I'm not having a moment, I'm having a week. Maybe three of them. But I guess after almost two years of just going and doing, I can be mad. Angry. Hurt. Enraged. Feel sorry for him and myself and us. 

Quinn:
On the left, the day we took him home!
On the right, a couple of months ago.

WHY? I did everything I could to ensure a healthy pregnancy. I did everything I could from the minute that beautiful nugget of goo and screams was pulled (and I mean pulled, my epidural was wearing off and I felt that shit) out from me and into the world to make sure that all his needs were met. I nursed as long as I could. I tried to keep my stress levels down.

AFTER TRYING MY BEST WE STILL GOT AUTISM. AND I'M FINALLY SAYING HOW ANGRY I AM ABOUT IT. Because of Autism, I can't find a sitter. Because of Autism, I'm afraid to move a mere 75 miles from my parents. Because of Autism, the school system can eat a dick. Because of Autism, I don't get to hear "I love you, Mama." Because of Autism, we are alone. Because of Autism, I feel like the world's most inept mother because I don't always know what my son needs, because I can't afford the proper schools or therapies or a completely sensory friendly home. Because of my job, he doesn't qualify for SSDI. Because of my job, I don't qualify for child care assistance. Because of Autism. Because of Autism. Because of Autism.

And then I feel like the world's biggest dickface.

I said we. But it's not we. He has Autism. He has the lifelong struggle of dealing with this disability that has no cure and no source. I don't parent him any differently than I would any other child. I say that, but do I know that? He is my only child. It's just he and I in this world. I am a 37 year old single mother of a child with challenges. His smile sends lightening bolts to my soul. He is perfectly unaware at age four of how hard life can and will be.

What, you don't watch TV like this?

Right now I fight his battles, and I will fight them until the day I have no fight left in me, meaning I will fight until my last breath is taken. When my anger takes hold of me, I feel like I have no fight. That I've hit the proverbial dead end of strength and will and determination. I am tired.

He rarely sleeps for more than four hours at a stretch. He prefers to wear only the softest of clothes that barely touch him due to tactile sensory issues. I can count on two hands the number of foods that he will eat due to oral sensory issues. His pacifer is the only thing that has soothed him in his life. I'm currently researching different home health stores for the best buy on pull ups since he is about to outgrow the biggest size that Pampers/Huggies/Whoever makes. I just purchased a swing with a three point harness, because swinging is his favorite thing in the whole world and a regular swing isn't safe for him, as he'll forget to hold on, completely enthralled by the wind stroking his skin.

Joy, personified.

I know that I use unsavory language in my posts. And if that is offensive, I apologize. It is certainly not my intent to offend. I just sometimes do not have a grip on more appropriate words that emphasize how intense my feelings are.

Regardless of every sleepless night, every meltdown, if I have to buy pull ups and pacifiers and iPads and we watch Sesame Street clips until my last breath - I won't regret a second of it. But alas, I am human, and I have feelings, and I can certainly be angry about life not turning out the way I thought it would. But what I cannot do, I won't do - is let the curtain of anger blind me from the absolute joy and exhilaration of raising a beautiful, sensitive, hilarious, energetic, loving, snuggly, ornery boy.

My hands are full, indeed - but so is my heart.

Love, Kelly and Quinn

An Open Letter to My Child

Dear Shortpants,

You are loud. You are (currently) stinky. You flap and squawk and stomp and knock stuff over and watch things eleventybillion times and refuse to take your medicine or eat anything that doesn't come out of a box.

I love you.

You don't sleep worth a crap. You are whiny. Not Calliou-whiny (Good LORD, I think his parents must be on drugs or deaf, because that shit just, yeah... no.) but whiny, nonetheless. You can clear a room with one little tiny turd. I have peanut butter and jelly smears all over my curtains.

I am proud of you.

You don't use silverware. Not quite ready for a cup without a lid. You'll eat tapioca, fig newtons, cheese cubes and Doritos by the pallet, but not the ends of hot dogs. You think butterscotch pudding is a food group. You (currently) abhor wearing pants, including pullups.

I am constantly amazed by you.

You either don't want to take a bath, or you never want to get out. You think my bed is a trampoline. You won't eat popsicles or ice cream. I'm waiting for the results on the DNA test to make sure you're mine for that reason alone. You have a bajillion toys that you won't play with, but you'll watch the same youtube clip a thousand times.

It is an honor to be your mama.

You think my toothbrush is yours. You can't sleep without a pacifer in your mouth and one in your hand. You leave the refrigerator door open. You have selective hearing. You look at most things with a sense of indifference that is fascinating and infuriating. You'd rather play in the street than in the sandbox. You scrunch up your face so that I can't see your gorgeous eyes when you see the camera flash.

My life would be empty without you.

You hug tightly. You smile brightly. Your laughter equals angels singing. Your facial expressions make it so hard to consistently discipline you because I'm stifling laughter. You smell like lavender, when you have clean pants, that is. Your head fits perfectly into my neck. Your snore is adorable. Your hand was meant to be in mine. You love fiercely. Your people are YOURS. You are braver than I would have ever imagined. You are beyond smart, and even though you can't speak, I am kinda positive you can read. You give my life meaning. You are FULL of JOY. You were meant to be my kid, just like I was meant to be your mama, and I thank God for you every fucking day.

You are loved. So very much.

Now get back here so I can change your pants and don't you dare stick your fingers in your...*sigh*... wanna take a bath?

Love,
Mama

Where I compare Parenting to a Video Game.

My son is four. He's a lot of things, but mainly, he's a four year old boy. Do you know what that means?

He can be kind of an asshole.

Yep. I said it. And I mean it. I know a lot of bloggers have gotten flack lately for calling their spawn the little a-holes that WE ALL KNOW they can be. Every critter that has taken a breath on this planet has the capacity to be a jerkface at one point or another. Even non-breathing things. Like my garden that refused to grow. ASSHOLE GARDEN.

Shortpants is four. Being a jerk comes with the territory.

Example 1: "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED EVEN THOUGH I JUST POINTED TO IT AND GAVE YOU MY ASSENT TO OPEN IT AND EVEN IF I DID WANT IT POINT TWO SIX SECONDS AGO I DON'T WANT IT NOW AND WHY DON'T YOU GET THAT YOU STUPID WOMAN?"

Example 2: "WHAT DO YOU MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAN I HAVE TO WASH MY HAIR! YOU SAID TAKE A BATH NOT WASH MY HAIR! THIS IS SUCH BULLSHIT. NO - WAIT - WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING DON'T WASH MY HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Example 3: "NO I DON'T WANT TO GO OUTSIDE EVEN THOUGH IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. I'D REALLY RATHER WAIT UNTIL THE GUY WITH THE ROAD MAINTAINER COMES TO GET ALL OF THE GRAVEL AND SHIT OUT OF THE GUTTERS AND THENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE I WANT TO GO OUTSIDE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Tell me what part of those three examples doesn't scream asshole to you.  I'll wait right here. Patiently.

Four year olds are geniuses at pushing the almighty buttons of the parent. "What, you thought I was done with that glass-shattering screech when I was two? Check this out! SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHH!" Button pushed. Successfully, I might add. I'm waiting to hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!" every time this, or something similar happens. Like two weeks after I needed a plumber to take the toilet apart because someone WHO MIGHT BE A FOUR YEAR OLD ASSHOLE flushed two bathtub toys, a washcloth, and a disposable razor - flushed God knows what because I'm still paying off the plumber from the first time and thank God I have two toilets and SWEET JESUS WHY DID I BUY THE TOILET THAT CAN FLUSH 10 GOLF BALLS WHEN I OBVIOUSLY NEEDED ONE THAT COULD FLUSH BATHTUB TOYS AND WASHCLOTHS AND A DISPOSABLE RAZOR?!

Do I hear "Oh! I'ma Mario!"? More like "LEVEL UP."

Shit.

Where I Pretend To Be Dear Abby Without Anyone Asking Me For Advice.

Okay, online dating. Millions of people do it. Thousands have found love. A few are probably still married to each other. I met my ex-husband online, and, well, ex-husband. However, if it works/worked/is working for you, yippee! I, on the other hand, am slightly skeptical due to experience. I am no online dating expert, but I happen to have a wee bit of common sense. So, without further ado, here are some tips that, if taken, may prove helpful. 

Disclaimer: This isn't about anyone in particular. If you can associate yourself with any of this - sorry, I'm not sorry. 

Don't be a dick about it. It's supposed to be funny.

1. If you’re ready to put it all out there on the interwebs, please, put it all out there. Truthfully. No holds barred. If you are in your 30s and have a booger collection, this is something I need to know before I consider responding to your wink or email with interest.  If you are looking for specifics, please say so. 
2. Don’t say “any body type” if you plan on not talking to me if I don’t have the physique of a CrossFit trainer.
3. Remember: you CAN be picky. Online dating gives you an opportunity to filter out your undesirables, if they were honest when filling out their profiles. However, if you are looking for someone who, like you, only listens to Pearl Jam – well, best of luck to you in your search.
4. Remember: you CAN be picky, but don’t be a dick about it. If someone doesn’t trip your trigger, move on. You don’t need to message someone (just because you paid for 6 months of the service in advance) to tell someone they need a nose job or going to the gym wouldn’t kill them.
5. Diversity is a good thing. Even if it doesn’t work out, you may find you do, in fact, like music other than Pearl Jam.
6. If you aren’t sure you want kids, or know you don’t, you may not want to look at potential partners who have children, especially when they live with them full time. Duh?
7. If someone takes the time to shoot you a message, especially a complimentary message, write them back and thank them. It’s a compliment, whether you’re interested or not. It’s called manners. Besides, you don’t know how long it took someone to muster up the courage (or how much they had to drink) to send that message.
8. Don’t expect the clouds to part, the angels sing, or someone to feel comfortable giving you their cell phone number after three days’ of messaging back and forth. Think about why you’re trying the online format of dating in the first place – a shitload of folks online have been burned before and probably want to start casually.
9. If the clouds don’t part, the angels don’t sing, and someone doesn’t feel comfortable giving their number or taking yours, it is probably nothing personal – they’re just not ready. Throwing a temper tantrum isn’t going to make them change their mind, but it may likely become personal, leading them to block you and file a restraining order.
10. Making new friends is a good thing. If someone isn’t interested in you romantically, don’t be a dick. (Do you sense a theme here?) Boyfriends and girlfriends come and go (pun intended), but friends are assets we all want and need.

If the above seems just too much for you to consider, well, you still have options. Most likely continuing your asshattery and dickery while remaining alone, or finding a mail-order-bride. Best wishes!