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

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 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!

She can be taught! Installment Uno!

I decided in the middle of my funk today that I was going to start a weekly list of all the things I learned throughout the week to make the crap salad I was force fed the last few days all rainbows and unicorns and silver line-y and all that. Note: this list is compiled entirely from the kids I work with. (I am a therapist at a community mental health center and I work primarily with kids. My head spins all.day.long. I pink puffy heart my job.)

We'll see how this goes. Something tells me probably nowhere near I intended. As with most of my ideas. I digress. As usual. Anyway.

1.  I need a haircut really badly. He (and he's five, mind you) also told me I might consider "Put some brown on your hair that isn't brown, Miss Kelly. Hair is supposed to be all one color. Like mine." Mmmhmm. Thanks, kid.

2.  I look like a Queen! Also? If I would put a crown "right there" I would look "just like a queen! Not a princess. Princesses are young like me. And you're old. So you would be a Queen." Awesome.

3.  I'm annoying and I get on people's nerves. I KNOW! I gasped just as loud as you just did! "Miss Kelly, since we're practicing telling our feelings in a way that isn't hurtful? I just wanted to let you know that sometimes you're really annoying and you get on my nerves. Is that how I'm supposed to do it? Did I hurt your feelings? I hope not, but you really can! And do! But you're kind of awesome." Um, thanks? And no. And not really, but this is kind of awkward, and thanks. I know.

4.  Pieces of paper don't mean you're smart. "Miss Kelly, I think I'm smarter than you are, and I'm only 6. I know you have dergrees and stuff, but I know a lot." Teach me, Obi Wan.

5.  I don't color worth a crap. "You missed a spot." "You can see your marker lines!" "Did you take art in school?" Yes. "Are you sure?!" Yes. "Really?!" "TYRONE'S SHIRT IS NOT RED AND BLUE IT IS ORANGE AND BLUE! I THOUGHT YOU HAVE KIDS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THIS!" Everyone's a critic.

6.  I have no taste. "Miss Kelly, you sure got a lotta crap in your office." Michael, I'd like for you to say that again with appropriate language and in a way that isn't hurtful. "BUT YOU DO! THERE'S CRAP EVERYWHERE IN HERE! I MEAN STUFF! THERE'S STUFF EVERYWHERE IN HERE! Is that better?" Um, kinda.

7.  Expect the unexpected. "Miss Kelly, I need to go potty." Okay, let's go! "Oh, I mean I needed to go potty. I did go potty." On my couch? "Kinda. And kinda on the floor. And in my shoe." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiighhhh...

Gee! I wonder what sorts of life lessons will be lobbed at my face like a knuckleball next week?

Or in about five minutes. Since Shortpants is ninja quiet...

Chasing that elusive "Me Time"

Oh Kelly, quit your complaining.... you have ONE kid who is generally in bed by 8:00. What's the problem?

The problem is I'm exhausted. Therefore, Shortpants and I have the same bedtime lately. Well, I'm in bed at a decent enough time, but asleep? Pfft.

Our day starts in the dark. I hit snooze until I can't squeeze anymore minutes out of "Okay, if I don't leave in X minutes, I'm going to be late", stumble to the shower, while in the shower decide to wear pants so I don't have to waste time shaving, get out, throw some gunk in my hair to make it look like I meant it to be that way, attempt to conceal the bags and sags and zits, and then... head to his room.

This is where it is different every day. Some days I hear happy jabbering (Yay! This morning is going to be eeeeeeeeeeeeeasy peasy!). Some days I hear the cutest snoring on the planet (This could prove interesting. I have a 50/50 shot as to how he's going to wake up - smiles or screams. Crap.). Some days I have heard him hollering way before my alarm was ORIGINALLY set to go off - and let's be completely honest here - I stick my nose in his door and take a huge sniff to make sure it's not pants related before I say "Just a second!" and go take my 3 minute shower.

I know what you're thinking. Really, I do. Because I think the same thing. But if you think a tornado has anything on my kid, you're wrong. Very, very wrong.

Also? Shortpants is on the Autism Spectrum - on the severe end. He doesn't speak, and he still sleeps in his crib. I know he's four. That's another post.

Usually (key word right there), I say "Good morning, Sunshine! Let's get ready for schoooooooool!" (because THAT's not annoying first thing in the morning) and he'll head to the door in his pajamas and 8 lb pullup. It's a good sign though, because getting him dressed shouldn't be too much of a fight. Half of that is managed because we still have temperatures that are equivalent to living in a volcano, so we don't have to deal with socks. Ask me later. I don't have the strength.

Anyway, he's either cooperative or he's not. Duh. Just like any other kid. And then we figure out what we want for breakfast (cereal or cereal - in a cup, because milk can't touch it - and that's fine, because it's commute-friendly), and THEN? It's meds time.

Holy Hand Grenades, I wish this wasn't an option, but life pre-meds? Neither my heart nor my brain will consider it for a second. I think he understands these help, but he hates taking them, unless they're covered with butterscotch pudding or strawberry yogurt. And even then, it's a chase around the house, and lots of attractive begging and pleading from me, and "Just one bite!" gets said about a thousand times, and the mouth will open! And the spoon gets shoved in! And then... well... the last couple of days we've figured out that we have two options - spit or swallow. And spitting has been the favorite lately, much to my dismay. But there are times that I'm pleasantly surprised, like today, for example.... he's been a complete trainwreck all morning, but I didn't even have to ask him to take his medicine, he stood there like a little baby bird waiting for his mama to give him something to eat. (Aww.) That's the last thing he's been cooperative about this morning, but hey - one is better than none, right?

We get in the car, and head down the road - still in the dark. We have a 2.5 hour round trip commute. Yeah. Awesome. And we listen to a combination of Phineas and Ferb, The Backyardigans, Laurie Berkner, and thrash metal on the way. (Well, after an hour of those three, my brain is bleeding, S.I.M.P. SQUIRRELS IN MY PANTS is permanently stuck in my head, and I might as well have listened to thrash metal all the way as much as my head is throbbing.). He goes to school or daycare, and I get back on the highway to go the last 25ish minutes to work. Which is when I turn on usually a country station and daydream about Blake Shelton. Or Luke Bryan. Or Jake Owen. Oh, Jake Owen.... you're so hot....

I digress. Off to work, save the world, try to remember who is picking Shorty up (because no daycare will stay open past 6, and when do I get off work? You guessed it.), and head home. Monday through Thursday, I drive home alone. Yes, I guess that's technically "me time", but since I have to get home and I have to drive - my definition of "me time" doesn't include any "have tos". Get home, dinner, bath, bed, collapse.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Ideas? Thanks in advance.

Love,

A Mom who would love to actually know what's on tv this season, or what's going on in the world, or have a hobby, or know what other adults do past 830 at night.