The One About April Fools'

"Hey, where you boys going?  There's no school today!" our neighbor, Mr. Joe, said this morning as we were loading up the van to head to school.

This was after 17 minutes of me asking, "Are your shoes on?" or "Did you brush your teeth?" or "Where's your backpack?"  You know, typical morning. Also, being a typical morning, one kid was complaining about hating wearing a jacket, getting into the van, school, shoes, and the universe at large.  Another kid had his head buried in his tablet while he pursued world domination (or whatever the heck happens in Minecraft) and was completely ignoring everything I said.  Boy number three ran around the van a few times and laughing hysterically while I clumsily chased him (because morning plus running.  Just no).  And The Girl was following me while I chased her brother, demanding chocolate for breakfast.

Like I said, typical morning. Which mean we were running late.  And I was exhausted already and hadn't had nearly enough caffeine for these morning shenanigans.

"There is too school," Ben called back to our neighbor.

"No there's not!"  Then Mr Joe paused for a few seconds and shouted, "April Fools'!"

Ben grinned.  But Daniel, well, Daniel gave me a look very similar to this:

I already knew what was coming.

Daniel is nine (10 next month, actually  EEK!) and he has autism.  People with autism are very, very literal.  I mean, really literal.

For example, one time, he was sitting with a friend of mine while a big old Texas rainstorm raged outside.  "Wow!" she said.  "It's raining cats and dogs."

Daniel gave her a look very much like the one above and said, "No it's not.  It's raining water."

Jokes are also hard for Daniel.  Sarcasm is almost impossible.  (How he got me for his mother is beyond me.  My spiritual gift is sarcasm).  That's not to say Daniel doesn't have a sense of humor.  He's a very silly guy and has earned the reputation of class clown.  He finds things funny all the time to laugh about but he'd rather see his humor than infer it.  So, whoopee cushions and flatulence are funny. Knock-knock jokes and tricks? Not so much.

April Fools' Day is kind of a nightmare for him. 

So this morning, he looked at me and said, "We don't have school today."  It was a statement, not a question.  He was not about to get in the van.

I took a deep breath. "Daniel, you have school today.  It was a joke."

"No, we don't have school."

"It's April Fools' Day.  It was a joke.  You have school."

"I don't want to go to school.  We don't have school."

I can't tell you how much I appreciated Mr. Joe  about then.  I appreciated him like I appreciate root canals and Justin Bieber music.

Finally, finally, he got in the van and finally, finally, we were on the road. I tried again to explain April Fools' Day to him.  "It's a day to play jokes on people and sometimes people lie and make things up as a joke."

A blessed moment of silence.  Then, "Lying is bad."

"Well, yes, lying is bad. But sometimes people make stuff up to be funny."

Daniel is a terrible liar.  This is often the case with people with autism and, hey, I'm not mad about it.  He's honest to a fault.  When he tries, on the rare occasion, to lie, it's so obvious it almost hurts. Plus, I reinforce all the time that lying is bad (it's one of my pet peeves) so I could understand his confusion.

"He was pretending, Daniel.  You're going to school."

He didn't reply.  I took it as a win for me.

I'm not sure how his day will go.  The social nuances of April Fools' are hard for Daniel to understand and a part of me worries he'll hear something he thinks is true and won't understand why it's not.  On this day, when lying is not only socially accepted but also encouraged, I hope my un-sarcastic, super honest boy will find some humor somewhere.

Then again, he'll be in a room half full of third grade boys.  Eventually one of them will fart.
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As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.   I thought to challenge myself this month to share story about autism in our family every day.  Every day this month.  That's a lot of days but, then again, I have a lot of stories.  

I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated. 

The Drive of Shame

 

My minivan is a disaster.  I'm not talking about a few Cheerios and a candy wrapper. I mean, a real state-of-emergency disaster.  Two days ago, I cleaned it out.  I removed two full bags of garbage.  Out of one average-sized minivan.   I actually picked up all the car seats to clean under them.  Never again.  I had nightmares after that.  Ignorance is bliss for a reason, people!   Plus another bag of junk to bring back in the house. Books. Baby dolls. Lost (and now found) shoes. A leftover lunch (like really leftover.  Think Easter and then go back a week), The purse I couldn't find and then the purse I was using because I couldn't find the first one.  12,642 plastic Easter eggs from two egg hunts and four kids. My dignity.  My self-respect.  

Look, I know I need to clean it.  It's just that . . . laundry . . . a pregnant, hormonal cat . . . television . . . reading . . . sleep . . . Facebook . . . flossing . . . anything . . . . Perhaps the minivan is my secret rebellion.  "Ha! World, take that.  I don't have much but I can laugh in the face of all of you by leaving my minivan a pit of filth."  

Nope.  Really, it's just the four kids.

The worst part of having a messy minivan is what I like to call "The Drive of Shame."  Every morning and every afternoon I make the trek to drop off or pick up our boys up at school and every morning and afternoon, I say this prayer silently in my head:

"Please Lord, do not let anything fall out of the van.  Please keep the eyes of the staff be directed anywhere but the floor of my minivan.  Please, please, please don't allow any adult to make direct eye contact; I can't take that look of horror.  I promise to clean the van.  I promise.  Amen."

Teachers and staff, I know what you're thinking when you see me coming.  I'm really sorry.  I really am.  Please know it's not a reflection of me as a person (mostly).  I apologize in advance if any flying or falling debris lands on your foot or in your eye.  It was completely unintentional.  You might want to remain a healthy six feet back from the vehicle as a precaution. 

Several months ago, not only was the van growing fungus inside, but the entire door just fell off one day.  I'm not kidding. 

It came right off the track and dangled there.  After laughing and then crying and then laughing again, we got out the duct tape. I drove the van around for close to three weeks (while we waited to get it fixed) with a door that was duct taped closed.  I lived in fear the duct tape would fail while I drove down the freeway and one of the kids would fall out. It also happened to be the door the kids used to get in and out of the van at school.  So, I had to rig up more tape and a sign to keep the staff from trying to open it.  (This is a dramatic recreation below).

Not quite accurate.  There was more tape involved in real life.

Oh Minivan, my Minivan . . . why art thou so disgusting?  Oh, yay, that's right.  The four kids. We haven't even talked about the smell.  Spilling milk in your van is bad.  Bad. Bad. Bad. 

I sincerely hope that our minivans aren't a reflection on our lives.  If so, Houston, we have a problem here.

But that's definitely not true.

Right?

Crap.

Telling the Truth

The other day Katherine and I stopped by the 99 Cent Only store to do a little grocery shopping. (Don't knock it until you've tried it, folks).  After getting back in our van (with my $1 a box protein bars!), loading up the groceries and Katherine, I turned on our 2003 Honda Oydessy and sat for a moment.  I won't say I was enjoying the air conditioning since it was close to 90 degrees that day (the AC doesn't work right now) and I wasn't hooking up my iPod to the radio (since I have neither a iPod or the fancy hooking-up receptacles to do this).

I was just taking a quiet moment, a deep breath, when The Girl was contained and I could sit.  Just sit.  And of course, I was checking Facebook.  My window was rolled down to let the air in.  Rolled down windows aren't that common in Houston, I've noticed, especially since that's how I roll these days. This might have been why I attracted the attention of the shopping strip security guard. Dressed in his "security blues," he resembled a (great) grandfather more than an actual impediment for any would-be thieves.

"Ma'am?" he said, coming close to my window. (Yes, I'm called ma'am now.  Ugh).

"Yes?"

"Everything okay?" he asked.

I looked around quickly.  Had I been so engrossed in Facebook that I failed to notice a bomb detonating or a carjacking?  "I'm fine."

He nodded and threaded his thumbs through the belt loops on his pants.  "Good.  Good.  I just wanted to check.  You never know with these old cars."  Then he smiled and walked off.

I sat there for a moment, a little embarrassed, a little tired, a little offended. 

Let me explain.  Generally speaking, I could care less what we drive, that most of my clothes come from the thrift store, that I can stretch $100 to feed our family of six for a week if I need to.  I could care less than our minivan and our car are 12 and 13 years old respectively; they are, after all, paid off. But I got embarrassed anyway and I got my feeling hurt a little (even though Grandpa Security Guard was just being nice).  I don't want to be reminded that our financial struggle is real.

Three or so years ago, my husband I gave up our credit cards.  All of them.  They've been cut up, thrown away and unused.  We gave up our credit cards so that we could work to become debt free.  See, when we moved to Houston seven and a half years ago, we were debt free. And then autism happened.  And then surprise kid number three happened. And then my husband struggled to find a job.  And then autism happened again.

With all those things, our debt grew.  It grew and it grew and it grew and . . . well, you get the point. These last few years have felt like watching a horror movie at times.  I watch my life and wince.  "Ouch, that one hurt." "Oh, that's going to be hard to recover from." "That one's gonna cause some bleeding, folks."  I've had to take my life with a sort of observational detachment or I would have long ago been locked up somewhere in a strait jacket.

Sometimes, life turns out to be nothing, nothing, like you expected.  There are some moments that are such pure joy--a love, a marriage, a baby, a new home--and some things are harsh, hard, messy. So, I'm going to fess up now.  I'm not good at the serious stuff usually.  My natural inclination is to crack a joke and laugh because that is so much easier than crying (plus I'm less likely to look like a sobbing tomato).

Today, I'm confessing: My life is hard. 

There, I said it.  Things are not easy.  I'm struggling with anger and resentment.  I'm struggling with depression and anxiety.  I'm struggling with financial worry and feeling inadequate. I feel a little like God handed me a gigantic pile a of dirt, said, "Here, move this," and forgot to give me a shovel so I have to use my hands and my hands hurt from the calluses and the broken nails and the bleeding.

My life is hard when we are struggling to potty train a six year old and I have to change yet another pull up.  My life is hard when I sit and wait while an insurance company decides the fate of therapy for our boys.  My life is hard when I juggle bills and more bills.  My life is hard when I see our families distance themselves.  Maybe that's actual distance because they live far away or maybe it's distance because our kids aren't perfect and never will be.  My life is hard when I have to make people see my kids aren't just a diagnosis or when I have to stay on top of teachers, when I have to fight.

My life is hard when I have to ask for help.  I know that sounds stupid, but . . . Oh. My. Goodness.  I hate asking for help.  

Here's another truth:  I'm tired.

This is not the kind of tired that a 14 hour nap will fix (however, I am willing to try if anyone wants to give me the opportunity).  I suspect this is the kind of tired that is soul deep.  That may not ever be fully healed until I'm in Heaven.  This is a lingering, overwhelming tired.  It's a tired that keeps me up at night. 

Since I'm letting it all hang out: I'm overwhelmed.

Am I making the right choices?  Is that what I should spend my time doing?  Should I worry about this?  Have a done enough?  No, really, have I done enough?  How can our family thrive when each day, each hour, sometime each minute is a lesson in survival?  How?  How?  How? Why? Why? Why?

But, and here's the good part.  Here's the only part I have to hang on to.  Here's the part that never gives up and never lets me down.  Here's the truth: God loves me. 

God loves me so much, He knows me and still loves me.  God's love for me showed up as Jesus.

Jesus' life was hard, especially his death.  Brutal, wretched, bloody, gruesome, necessary.  Jesus' hands did literally hurt from the calluses, the broken nails, the bleeding.  For me.  For you.  Jesus understands that life is hard. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus knew about being tired in his soul.  In the Garden of Gethsemane before he's taken away to his death, he said, "My soul is very troubled (Matthew 26:38)." His death was foretold and imminent.  Jesus was tired. He knows.  He understands.

Jesus was overwhelmed.  As he hung on the cross, he was overwhelmed by our sin, the sin he took on for each of us. He cried out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me (Matthew 27:46)?" His why was much bigger than mine will ever be.  His why was for me and for you.  Jesus was overwhelmed. He knows.  He understands.

This is the truth I have to hold onto because it makes all the hard, all the tired, all the overwhelming worth it.  The truth is simple and so, so hard to comprehend.  But that truth is mine.  I just need to remember it and take hold of it. When all else fails (and life is teaching me, it will), this is the truth I cannot forget: God loves me.

I don't have a monopoly on the hardness, the tiredness, and the overwhelming. Each of feels this in some way.  Maybe the season is short for you and maybe it's much longer.  But know that this is your truth too.

God loves YOU.

He knows.

He understand.
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God loves YOU.

That One Time I Took the Boys to Get Their Pictures Taken . . . .

Preface:  I wrote this story almost seven years ago (and posted it on Facebook) but I thought it would be fun to add here on the blog (that I sporadically post on).  Just a month after this happened, Daniel was formally diagnosed with autism, although we were already fairly certain that would be the case.  At the time, Daniel was a month shy of three years old, Ben was a little over one, and I was five and a half months pregnant with boy number three.  So, yay, not sure what the heck I was thinking!  I hope you get a good laugh out of it. 

"Let's start with him," the photographer said, pointing at Daniel.

Neen was the photographer's name, or at least that's what his nametag said and he looked all of 18 years old. He had a wide smile and an eager expression and I knew, I just knew, that he'd be no match for Daniel.

Somehow, in my great wisdom, I had decided to single-highhandedly (and five and a half months pregnant to boot) take both boys for photos. There was trouble on the horizon and I was all alone.

Daniel looked at us, dressed in a blue striped shirt and matching shorts. His eyes round and owlish behind his glasses. His face shone with the innocence and obedience of any sweet, precious toddler. And then, as is often the way with two year olds, the switch flipped and that look was gone, replaced by outright stubbornness and defiance.

"Daniel," Neen said. "Could you sit down for me?" He pointed at the white backdrop that covered the wall and ground.

"No."

"Daniel, can you stand here for me?"

"No."

"Daniel, can you catch the ball?"

"No."

And so on and so on and so on. I tried to help. I resorted to begging, pleading, bribing, and finally threatening . . . but Daniel stubbornly refused to cooperate. Oh, he played with the props--a duck, a monkey, a bear--but he wouldn't go near the backdrop. Neen was not to be deterred though--he got help, in the form of two other employees. They tried too--they begged, they pleaded, they bribed, and I'm sure ten minutes after meeting Daniel, they really WANTED to threaten.

After perhaps 20 minutes of trying to coerce Daniel into something that resembled a smile, and failing miserably, Neen decided it was best to "give Daniel a break" and move onto Ben. Little Benjabean (my nickname for him) had looked on with interest from the stroller and when it was his turn to perform, he did not disappoint. Of course, if you've ever met Ben, you'd know that there's nothing he likes better than smiling and showing off for people. So Ben laughed and smiled and Neen took about 30 pictures in which Ben posed for the camera each and every time.

Meanwhile, Daniel played with the monkey.

Then it was time to get pictures of the two of them together. There is was, a spring background, a cute little "wall" for them to sit on, and let the fun begin. Not one time would the two of them sit next to each other. Not once, for even a split second did they both look at the camera at the same time. In fact, what happened was a wrestling match of epic portions.

In the end, Neen's smile was much more wobbly than when we started and if he ended up with even half the headache I did, then I hope he took the rest of the day off. I'm certain he had a deeply philosophical inner-monologue about his career choice.

Afterwards, exhausted and grumpy, I chose pictures quickly and it wasn't too hard since my choices were very limited. The boys sat quietly next to each other this whole time and devoured a bag of Goldfish crackers.

One day, I'm sure I'll look back on this and laugh and think about how silly my boys were when they were almost three and 14 months. And one day, when they are big and grown, I might even wish to relive this day just to have them little and cuddly again, to see Daniel with that look of pure mischief in his eye or Ben with his cheeky little grin. Even though it was a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad trip to the photographer's, I still thank God that I have two little boys to do it with. Motherhood is the coolest job in the whole world, even on days like this.

Of course, I couldn't tell this story without proof so . . . . Enjoy!

Sarcastics Anonymous

I'm thinking of starting a chapter of Sarcastics Anonymous in the new year.  I'm thinking it could be like my New Year's resolution since losing weight and being a better housekeeper seem to not be working out for me.





Like with all things, my mind wanders and I start to think what one of these meetings will look like. I should probably stop all this "mind wandering;" it gets me into a lot of trouble.

OUR MISSION: To accept responsibility for our sarcastic ways and how it effects every area of our lives.

We will learn new ways of coping with life like smiling and nodding, not making fun of stupid people, situations or anyone's grammar and knitting.

Sample Meeting Agenda:
7:00-7:05pm--Make small talk.  Please limit questions to one word responses.  Please limit responses to one word replies.  Watch your tone!

7:05-7:20--Group Discussion
Sample Topic:  Why the Kardashians are Famous
Instructions: Engage in above topic, using only positive statements.  Remember: no sarcasm is good sarcasm. Please come prepared with comments.  You have two months' prep time.  You can do it!

7:20-7:35--Personal Testimonies:  In which members share how their sarcasm has ruined their lives and the lives of others they have come in contact with. Sarcasm is the third most likely cause of marital strife. (First is money, second is not replacing the toilet paper roll).

7:35-7:55--Topical Speaker
Suggested Topics:
Tone will be the DEATH of you
The South wasn't Won on Sarcasm
Nobody likes a Sarcastic Guest
Life with a Sarcastic Spouse--The Bad, the Badder, and the Worst
The Sarcasm Gene?  Will Your Children Be Affected?

7:55-8:00--Reminders and Reciting the SA Creed
Sarcastics Anonymous Creed
God grant me the serenity to bite my tongue
when stupid people say stupid things,
The courage to point out grammar errors politely,
And the wisdom to smile and nod whenever necessary.


*This post was, of course, done with a good deal of, well, um, sarcasm.  Please take it as such.  :)

How I'll Get Arrested

Our youngest, Katherine, is two years old.  As the only girl with three older brothers, she's kind of used to getting her way and . . . mean.  She has no problem kicking, hitting, or biting to get what she wants.  And then she looks at you with her giant blue, blue eyes and all that blonde, blonde hair and those adorable dimples and you'll almost forget. 

Until she bites you again.

I am often asked if I am her babysitter.  I am neither blonde-headed or blue-eyed and my adorable factor is questionable.  (Although I do bite on occasion). She certainly favors her father in the looks department.  She unfortunately favors me in the personality department. (My kids tell me all the time how mean I am).

Over the last month, she's learned to say a new word.  The word is "help."

Actually what I mean to say is that she's learned to yell the word "help."

Usually in public.

Usually when I'm trying to put her in a grocery cart.  Or the carseat.

As loud as she can (and it's surprisingly loud), she'll shout, "Help! Help! Help!"

I'm struggling to get her in the carseat, grappling with the buckle, trying to avoid her teeth, and, okay, I might be swearing under my breath  (Putting this kid in a carseat is exhausting.  I deserve a cookie or cruise or something afterwards) and she's screaming "Help!" at the top of her lungs.

All this to say, I'm just biding my time until I get arrested.  It's gonna happen, people.  Someone is going to walk by and think, "Why is that woman forcing that toddler yelling 'help' who doesn't look anything like her into that van?" And the police will get involved.

Can I blog from prison?  I'm not sure.

On one hand, I'll be arrested which, admittedly, has quite a few negative aspects.

On the other hand, it is kind of like a paid vacation. A few days in solitary sounds kind of . . . peaceful.

Rea'l Talk

Let's have a talk about diarrhea.  I know, you're thinking, Really, lady? It's Friday night. But you know what, I'm a mom and diarrhea waits for no one.  No. One.

We learned a new word today in our house: Diarrhe'd. 

I will have to admit that I'm not sure if I put the air comma in the correct space.

(Oh, I'm sorry, you might not be familiar with the term "air comma." That would be the easy way to spell apostrophe).

 But I digress, back to diarrhe'd. As I am a former English teacher, I have always found that definitions are best understood in context.  So, here's how it went down.

I ran upstairs to grab something and when I came back downstairs, one of boys, who had previously been fully clothed moments before, was now in his underwear.  This occurrence in and of itself is pretty common--who doesn't like to run around in their underwear in the middle of the day, right?  Ask my husband, he'll tell you.

"Son," I say.  "Where are your clothes?"

"Not on me anymore," he says.  And yes, please note the sarcasm cause I'm kind of proud.

As a mom, I have begun to really hone my questioning tactics.  For example, questions should be as specific as possible.  If there's too much wiggle room, you'll never get the right answer. It's exactly like an attorney trying to nail a witness on the stand.  So, I try again.

"Why don't you have your clothes on anymore?"

"Cause I diarrhe'd on myself," he replies.

"Diarrhe'd?"

"Diarrhe'd," he says.  "Come and see." (Words everyone wants to hear when we're on this topic).

So I follow him to the bathroom and check.  I can't tell you how often I look at poop as a mom.  I can talk pretty freely about poop in general now.  Poop.  Poop.  Poop.  Not even cringing.  It's a fact of life, people.

"Yup, you definitely diarrhe'd."

"I don't think I can go to school tomorrow," he announces.

"Good thinking.  Tomorrow is Saturday.  You should not go to school."

"Oh well," he continues, undeterred.  "I should probably stay home on Tuesday." (I'm impressed with his quick thinking.  Monday is a holiday).

So, based on this, I think we can define diarrhe'd as "The act of having just had diarrhea, especially how it can be used as an excuse to get out of school."

(I also imagine there's some poor kid running around named Diarrhe'd. You know, like, "Diarrhe'd, don't play in the toilet." or "Diarrhe'd, get your fingers out of there." Poor kid probably has to tell everyone where to put the air comma).
 
Anyway, it should be a fun (or is crappy the right word?) weekend.

Isn't it always?



*I would like to dedicate this blog post to Steve Smith, who saw the potential in a blog post about diarrhea.  Thanks, Steve.  Everyone else thanks you too.