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