Me and My Big Mouth

This is just like the time when I first laid eyes on the man who would become my husband. I told my friends that I was gonna marry that drunk guy with the mean pool shot, the beautiful green eyes and the drug-dealeresque Motorola pager, someday. Or the time when, on the way to my first ultrasound appointment, I suggested to my Mr. that it would be a real hoot to call my mom and tell her I was pregnant with twins. Only to discover that I was, in fact, pregnant with twins. So, it comes as no surprise that when I said ‘ You know, as soon as I start blogging again, I’m gonna get swamped with a writhing heap of actual writing work, and I won’t even have time to wipe my own arse,” I was right on the money.

But here I am. A little behind on the updates, but here I am. And that is all that matters. So, in the interest of getting caught up, here are the highlights of the last week or so in the life of the Blister Family:

2 out of 3 ain’t bad

With two cups of coffee chugged, three different doctors observing, six different forms with somewhere in the realm of  341 questions answered, and  4.5 hours at the hospital for the assessment, Neener was finally officially diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. That brings the official Blister Family Kids on the Autism Spectrum count to 2, as there probably won’t be any official word on Squiggles for at least a year, although she is still considered “high risk” and autistic-ish enough to warrant our participation in a pilot study dealing with parent training for early intervention.  So, what does this all mean? Not much. Except that I was right. And that we’re now re-evaluating some of our methods of dealing with Neener. And that I now officially have license to ask any buttinski who offers up unsolicited parenting advice or comments on the behaviour of any of my children,  how many kids with autism they have. And if the answer is anything less than one, I can now officially smile politely and tell them to shove their astute observations and their well-meaning advice directly up their Pinworm Maternity Wards.

The Pinworm Maternity Ward

11:30 p.m, the night before Neener and Roo’s Big Birthday Extravaganza, just as Mr. and I were finally making some progress in the gargantuan task of morphing our house from a disaster zone to a party zone, we hear Neener howling. Howling that her bum is itchy. Quite literally hooowwwling. As a former dirt-eating country bumpkin kid, I immediately knew what was going on with my dirt-eating city bumpkin kid: worms. Sure, I could do as the half dozen websites I quickly consulted suggested, and stick a piece of tape over her anus and peel it off in the morning to see if I could catch any mama worms who’d poked their little worm heads out to lay their little worm babies. Or I could coax her back to bed, then fire up the flashlight in the middle of the night to inspect her butt as she slept, to confirm my suspicions. But I’m pretty sure that’s the stuff that resurfaces as alien abduction/anal probe “memories” decades later. So, I did what any dirt-eating country bumpkin mother with dirt-eating city kids would have done: established what will now be a semi-annual family-wide worm medicine dosing, whether we need it or not. Half an hour later, three out of five of us had bellies’ full of carmel flavoured Combantrin, and the Pinworm Maternity Ward was unceremoniously shut down. At least until the next afternoon Neener decides to “help” me in the garden by simultaneously making cat poop infested mud sculptures and eating watermelon.

Neener & Roo’s Big Birthday Extravaganza

My baby girls turned 6. To mark this auspicious event, we invited 19 of their closest fellow children over to dump paint all over the carpet, eat all our blueberries, and bring a bunch of new stuff to replace the bunch of old stuff that got turfed in the process of turning the house from a disaster zone  to a party zone. And I don’t know about the rest of the little weirdos – who turned their noses up at the hummus and veggie plate, had no idea how to dance to The Beatles’  Octopus’ Garden, and acted like they’d never been asked to paint flowerpots at a birthday party before – but Neener and Roo had a blast. Nobody ate too much cake or paint, and nobody barfed. Nobody had a meltdown because the cups and utensils weren’t pink. And nobody gave them any Bratz Dollz, so nobody had to take a can of lighter fluid and a match out into the yard in the middle of the night and torch any obnoxious birthday presents.

Oh, and then there’s this…

Look Ma! No hands! Yes, that’s Squiggles walking. No, she’s not exactly “running all over the place” or even doing it remotely steadily and predictably, but she’s doing it, dammit. At nearly 18 months old, my baby girl is finally on her pegs. Whew. After six whole months of it, I was starting to get really sick of plastering a cheery smile on my face and optimistically chirping “No, not yet, but probably soon. ” everytime someone asked if she’d started walking. Especially when what I really wanted to do was plaster on a smug little smirk and sneer,  ” No, but she can sing every word of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, count to ten, and recognize a bunch of letters. And by the way, how many kids with autism do you have, and do you think you’d have any room in your Pinworm Maternity Ward for the advice I can tell you’re just about to offer me?” But I didn’t. Not even once. Instead, I grinned back at their mildly surprised and faintly sympathetic smiles, and patiently listened to their reassuring stories about how their niece’s daughter’s friend and their best friend’s grandson’s cousin didn’t walk until they were almost two, and nodded at the advice to not worry about it because every child is different. No shit, Sherlock.

Ahhh, but I digress. But before I delve into the mountain of pay-the-bills work that has so happily come my way, let me envision a little something here: Sure, this summer I am going to be so busy with work that I will not have time to wipe my own arse, or the arses of my children. However, I will be making money. And so will my Mr. And we’ll be able to afford to hire someone else to wipe the arses of the children. And we’ll be able to afford to have my office chair outfitted with a snazzy little toilet/bidet attachment, so that I will not, in fact, even have to wipe my own arse. Then, I can focus on building a lovely little empire for me and my family. Yay for me and my big mouth!

Making a comeback takes balls…

You have Meg Hickling to thank for this blogging comeback. Meg Hickling, and of course, my own uncanny ability to make a rational decision based on the most logical, well-thought-out list of pros and cons…and then decide that the road to crazyville is, in fact,  paved with rational decisions and pros and cons lists, and that I’d be better off  reversing my rational, well-thought-out decision, even at the risk of looking like a flip flopper. Personally, I’m a fan of the flip-flop. It’s a sign of flexibility. Of an ability to appropriately analyze and react to the assorted ebbs and flows of life. Any knuckle head can make a decision and  stick by it. It takes real brains and real cajones to know when to pull a complete 180. So here I am, frantically 180-ing away at my keyboard, with Squiggles parked in front of the tube demonstrating her uncanny ability to repeat an entire episode of Bear in the Big Blue House, word for word.

Ohhhhhh yes. Domestic Blister is back.

In the weeks since I shattered all your poor little reader hearts with the abrupt throwing in of my perpetually un-laundered blog towel, I’ve had plenty of time to just sit back and observe my family and my life without the pressure of turning the Blister family’s every foible into some sort of heart warming life lesson and/or smart-assed social commentary and/or barf-laced cautionary tale. And I realized something: I can’t not write this blog. Not because  I have any particular wisdom to impart. And certainly not because there’s a shortage of narcissistic brain farting on the internet. You, my readers, and the blogosphere in general, might not need this blog. But I do.  I need this quasi-public outlet for my writing and my experiences. I need a place to dump out all the sad and hilarious and furious and fuzzy thoughts that constantly mill around in my mind. I need to put my words out there, and see what happens. And I don’t care if the work I do on this – and make no mistake, this is work – never makes me a penny. And I don’t care if my writing or my mothering or my life doesn’t live up to any expectations other than my own. And I don’t care if I have to start mainlining Red Bull just to stay up past 10 pm; or feeding my family microwaved chicken legs basted in no-name shame sauce, served atop a pile of Mr. Noodles once a week; or letting Squiggles use the laptop so she can transcribe episodes of Bear in the Big Blue House, just to keep her out of my hair long enough to hack out a post. What ever it takes to put out these stories of my life, I’ll do. I need to write this blog.

And here is why: Apart from the fact that I have always been compelled- possibly by forces beyond my control – to blab about myself,  I have also been blessed with a weirdo family, who are, quite frankly, a lot of fun to blab about too. And here is where Meg Hickling comes in to play. Here is the story that forced me back to blogging. The story that I just could not not share:

***WARNING*** The following anecdote contains  cute shit my kid said, graphic descriptions of human reproductive organs, and Domestic Blister’s trademark storytelling style, which may induce urine leakage in those with compromised kegel muscles. Clench ‘em if you’ve got, folks…

So, quite some time ago, I bought Neener and Roo the book Boys, Girls and Body Science, by Meg Hickling. It kicked around on our bookshelf largely unnoticed for well over a year. Until recently. In the book,  a cartoon Meg – who is a sexual health educator with a scientific approach- visits a cartoon classroom to explain and answer cartoon kids’ questions about cartoon bodies and cartoon boobies and cartoon baby making. It’s a great little book. Friendly, frank and factual. And funny. At least, it was when Roo read it.

It took me a minute to figure out what she was reading on that fatefully Saturday afternoon, when she discovered Boys, Girls and Body Science on the bookshelf. At first, all I heard was laughing. Then, with steadily increasing volume, and skyrocketing enthusiasm I heard her repeat one word: “BALLS!”  Over and over and over again. Until she was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe. At which point, Neener arrived on the scene and picked up right where Roo left off: The cry of  ” BALLS! BALLS! BALLS!” rang out through the Blisterdome until Neener and Roo were reduced to crumpled heaps of hysterical giggles. See, in the book’s bit about male reproductive organs, Meg asks the class what they know about boy’s body parts. In an attempt to illustrate the importance of not using slang words, Meg responds by offering up the correct terminology when one of the kids eagerly shouts out the word balls. Which then leads to a conversation about using scientific words, and a little explanation about testicles being little ball-shaped parts of a boy’s body, and they are held in a wrinkly sack known as the scrotum. But what do my kids learn from Hickling’s rational, well-thought-out little story? Why, to shout out the word “BALLS!” at the top of their lungs, of course! So I tried to get the “BALLS!”  under control. I sat with them on the couch and read the book with them, carefully trying to de-emphasize the part where the kid shouts the word balls. And it went well. They got it. They learned a lot. And they stopped yelling “BALLS!” at least temporarily. Probably because they got so distracted by the word urethra. When we finished reading, I told them that if they had any questions, I was here for the asking. Nope, no questions, they said. Whew. So, we put the book back on the shelf and went to the kitchen to have a snack, as I patted myself on the back for not only ending the “BALLS!” fest, but for helping Neener and Roo really get a handle on some anatomical and biological fundamentals.

Then, Roo mused out loud:

” So, are there balls AND skipping ropes in a scrotum?”

At which point, I’m pretty sure some urine escaped from my urethra. And I hope some just did from yours too. Because that, my friends, is what this blog is all about.

Post # 100, in which the blog becomes aware of itself…

That’s right, this is Domestic Blister’s 100th post. And to commemorate this momentous milestone, I’d like to take a moment to thank you, my dear readers, for supporting this ego maniacal rant-fest. For hanging on my every swear word. For putting up with all my bitching and blustering and talk about the barfies. For being just as confused as I have been at times, not knowing whether to laugh or cry at the experiences that have shaped the Blister family. Thank you. I am a better writer and a better mother because of you.

That’s why I started this blog in the first place. I did not want this to be a shiny happy mommy blog about the cute shit my kids say, and how perfect my life is, although there are shades of that here. I also did not want it to be a snide, cynical pity party about how hard it is to walk in my shoes with such big, clumsy, blister prone feet. But there are shades of that here too. Really, I just wanted a place to blab about nothing. Or something. Or everything. I honestly didn’t even think anybody would actually read this, let alone keep reading it for nearly a year. But I’m glad you did.

Now, here’s the part where I take my readers ever so gently by the hand, lead them to a beautiful, flower-filled meadow whilst whispering soothing words of love and gratitude in their ears, and then turn around and thwack them in the heads with a ten-pound bag of yukon gold potatoes that I’ve been hiding behind my back the entire time: I’m afraid that this, the 100th post on Domestic Blister, will be the last. You saw that coming, right? You’ve all seen how slack I’ve been lately. And with good reason. I’ve been rolling the thought of quitting this blog around in my mind for quite some time, but I just wasn’t sure how or when or why to do it. Rest assured, dear reader, it’s not you. It’s me. Like I said, I started this blog to challenge myself. To become a better mother and a better writer. I think I’ve done that. God knows I’ve felt challenged by the emptiness of my screen and the fullness of my mind every single time I sat down to hack out a post. But over the last few months,  I feel like I’ve been losing ground. I’ve been writing just for the sake of getting something, anything,  up on this blog. And those are hours that I now feel like I should be spending with my kids. Or, quite frankly, if I’m going to be glued to the computer for three hours at a time, I should be writing something that pays the bills. A writer can not live on love alone.

I’m not ruling out the possibility that I’ll pick this thing up again someday. That this may not be good-bye, but rather a see-ya-later. I don’t know. I’ll ask my tarot cards, since they seem to be so goddamn smart these days. But I do know that for now, my heart and my head and my efforts  need to be more focused on other things in my life. Things that will help establish me as a writer, and put some money in my pocket. Things that need help learning to walk.  Things that want to learn to bake fancy cheesecakes. Things that say cute shit like “Damn, we haven’t had pickles for a snack in a long time!”

Again, thank you for reading and responding and relating to my life and my family. It’s been a slice. May you all find your own personal path to bliss, domestic or otherwise. May you travel that road with a wellspring of strength, and a weakness for laughter. And may you always, always have a band-aid handy. Just in case you get blisters.

Reptile Rage-O-Rama

The vivid red, yellow and black bands of a Coral snake warn predators that this serpent means business. Deadly, venomous, fuck-with-me-and-I’ll-pump-you-full-of-neurotoxin-and-paralyze-your-lungs type business. I know this because of the little write-ups on the tags that came with the not one, but two,  Coral snakes we now own. The creatively named Venom and Coral. Venom and Coral came all the way from some cheap plastic crap factory in China, to the merchandise table at the moderately priced family fun-o-rama known as Little Ray’s Traveling Reptile Show. Which just happened to be traveling near us this weekend. So, after a week’s worth of dangling the flyer for Little Ray’s Reptile Show in front of Neener and Roo whenever it was time to clear the table, or get ready for school, or stop a “You’re a Boy!/No I’m not! Yes you are! No I’m not!” argument , Mr and I made good on our promise this morning. Because apparently, we are sadists.

I could write about how we showed up right at nine o’clock because Neener and Roo were desperate to get the as-advertised “Free Chomper Toy for the first 100 kids.” Then I could write about how Neener and Roo had absolutely no idea what a Chomper Toy actually was, and how that didn’t matter because it had the words Free and Chomper and Toy in bold print on the flyer.  And how within minutes of receiving the Free Chomper Toys, the novelty wore off, and the Free Chomper Toys became More Stuff for Mom and Dad to Carry. I could also write about Mr.’s unsung act of heroism. How he saved the crowd of drenched parents and screaming children from spending even longer in the howling wind and driving icy rain, by insisting that the khaki-clad kids collecting the cash let the frozen families line up inside the building instead of out. And how the crowd repaid Mr.’s use of his common sense for their common good by butting in front of us, to make sure that their two-year olds got a chance to not care about seeing an alligator. I could write about Neener darting around the big, busy room like a hummingbird that fed from a can of Red Bull, and how she used her Chomper toy to collect wood chips from the tortoise display. Or Roo’s desperate attempts to get her hands on the long, carrot coloured braided hair of the Iguana handler, and her fascination with the Taiwan Beauty snake. Or Squiggle’s mysterious conversation with the Great Horned Owl. Or how Mr. and I experienced the surrealism of eight feathery tarantula toes dancing across our hands. But those are the pleasant little details that, while cute and amusing, would make me yawn after a while if that was all I had to write about. Me, I’m all about the drama. And God knows that the Blister family can not set foot in a place like Little Ray’s Traveling Reptile Show without some sort of drama.

Which brings us back to the Coral snakes. Venom and Coral. Fifty-one minutes and twenty-three bucks later, we were all more than ready to get the hell out of Little Ray’s Reptile Fun-O-Rama. The crowd had doubled in volume, tripled in pushiness, and our collective patience had been slashed in half and divided by five. And that’s when Neener and Roo discovered the merchandise table, crawling with stuffed frogs and iguana puppets and toy tarantulas and rubber snakes. So I cut a deal with them: I would loan them the money to buy something but they’d have to pay me back from their piggy banks when they got home.  Sure, they said, no problem. Roo, having already thoroughly mauled every item on the table, settled on a Coral snake. And when Roo decides  she wants something, that’s it. That snake will be her best friend until some other carefully chosen object is deemed worthy of her long meandering narratives. Neener, on the other hand, is more subject to impulse. To making decisions without thinking them through. To wanting for the sake of getting. To doing things that she regrets moments later. And so was the case with her Coral snake.

As Mr. went to get the van, the girls and I waited inside. It was then that Neener decide that she did not want the Coral snake after all. That it was boring. That this would be a good time to have an all out meltdown. All the way into the van and out of the parking lot, she screamed, she stomped, she yelled. We tried speaking to her in calm controlled voices. We tried speaking to her in not-so-calm, not-so-controlled voices. We distracted, we threatened, we guilted, we reasoned. Nothing could bring Neener back to rational. So, we did something that goes against all logic in such a situation. We stopped at Tim Hortons. And we did what is known in the behaviour management business as “Precipitating a Crisis.” Coffees for Mr and I , and a powdered jelly donut for Roo. And nothing for Neener. Which resulted in a sharp escalation of screaming and yelling, and the almost-amusing addition of  Neener whacking herself in the forehead, and snarling, gnashing, and clawing at the air like a very, very pissed off tiger. Which continued more or less unabated until we got home, at which point she was sent directly to her room, where she could be heard wailing ” But I’m gonna starve to death!” and “Nobody cares about me!” and “Everybody in the whole world gets all the treats and I don’t get anything except bossed around and told to go to your rooooooom!” And once the screaming died down to sobbing, I went upstairs with a banana and a glass of water to seize this teachable moment. We talked about everything Neener could have done differently at many points, from thinking more carefully about what she wanted to buy, to positive self-talk, to ways of calming down after freaking out, to the futility of whacking one’s self in the head. And when I say we talked, I mean that we talked. Not that I talked and she listened. That approach doesn’t work now that Neener knows what the word lecture means, and is not afraid to point out when a lecture is in progress. And I think that by going the non-lecture route, and by going downstairs and writing down some of the things we figured out, she might get it. She might be able to put the experience to use in her often tumultuous daily life. If not, I’ll have to consider precipitating the crisis even further next time something similar happens. And instead of hiding in my office to eat the donut we got for her just in case she pulled herself together enough to deserve it, maybe I’ll eat it right in front of her. The vivid powdered sugar and lemon jelly bands around Mommy’s donut-filled mouth tell fit-throwing children that their mother means business. Serious, dragon mama, throw-a-fit-at-me-and-I’ll-eat-your-donut-and-lecture-you-until-your-ears-fall-off-like-lizard-tails type business.

Now, Venom and Coral and the Free Chomper Toys have been lovingly pitched into the junk pile in the basement. Neener’s freak-out is as good as forgiven and forgotten, but I’d like to think a lesson will stick with her beyond today. We have some cool pictures of our morning at Little Ray’s Reptile Racket. And I have a new appreciation for this morning’s little details: tarantula feet, rubber Coral snakes, donuts-as-a-crisis-precipitation tool, and the improvisational parenting of my never-boring children.

Squiggles’ Prayer

“Our father, who art in the kitchen, Daddy be they name. Thy bottle come. My will be done. Right now because I’m a baby. Give me right now, my freakin’ baba, and don’t forget to change my diaper. Lead me not to my crib, but deliver me from my sisters. For mine is this living room. The power and the glory. Forever and ever. A-baby.”

UU and Us

The Blister family has done something completely outrageous. Something so totally out of character that frankly, I’m a little shocked, even though it was my idea in the first place. We’ve started going to church. That’s right, all of us except the fish and the cat, who are staunch atheists. And church. As in getting brushed and washed and dressed every Sunday morning to go listen to a choir sing hymns, and a reverend deliver a sermon while the kids go upstairs to the Sunday school room for stories and songs and snacks. But this is not just any church. It’s the Universalist Unitarian Church.  A.k.a the UUC. It’s the only church we could really picture ourselves having any involvement in because the UUs are pretty much dogma-free, and very much interested in celebrating the human spirit and improving the human condition. It embraces social justice, social advocacy, science, philosophy, spirituality, and intelligent debate about God and mankind and the existence of both. It’s also the only church that might have us because they are all about tolerance and acceptance. And trust me, if there’s any family who can test a church crowd’s capacity for tolerance and acceptance, it’s us.

Any new foray into public is an intensely nerve-wracking experience for all of us. Especially me. And any new forays into public  that require all three of our children to  a) sit semi-still and listen quasi-quietly, b) interact with a bunch of strangers in a busy, unfamiliar place without looking in anyone’s purse, grabbing anyone’s boobs, or asking every single person what their name is and how old they are, and c) keep the nose picking, road salt eating, microphone grabbing, random-word-yelling, crying, screaming and explosive pooping to a minimum is an exercise in insanity-provoking futility. For all of us. Especially me. So why the hell would we voluntarily subject ourselves to just such a situation on a weekly basis? Because we all need it. Simple as that. Neener and Roo need the practice. Practice in the give-and-take-of conversation, in listening and speaking politely. Practice controlling their impulses. Practice being part of a group. They need the type of education that the UU Sunday school provides. The month of February is devoted to learning about earth-centred religions. They’ve heard the Mi’kMaq story of how our continent was born. They’ve sung songs about respecting and loving Mother Earth and all creatures great and small. And later this month they’re going to learn about Pagan celebrations and Wiccan traditions. Squiggles needs to see other babies, and to stack new blocks, and to chew on new toys every now and then.  Mr. and I need a place to explore our own ideas about spirituality, morality, mortality. To think about and talk about what we believe and why. Our whole family needs a sense of community, a sense of belonging, a sense of who we are and what we can do and be in the world. But none of that will come easily to us.

This Sunday was our second trip to church.  Mr. stayed downstairs for the church services – an enlightening, eclectic mix of music and sermon and conversations on everything from the dark side of our souls to Darwinism to the parallels between the human brain and the galaxy. Meanwhile, I escorted the kids to the Sunday school class, and subsequently spent that time fighting back tears, trying not to look like I was embarrassed out of my skull, wanting nothing more than to run away from that room full of pleasant strangers and back to the solitary, predictable sanctuary of our home. Back to a place where it doesn’t matter if  Neener freaks out because someone misspelled her name or because the apple juice is a different brand than she’s used to. Where it doesn’t matter if Roo doesn’t speak when spoken to, or can’t resist playing the piano during story time. Where Squiggles is the only baby, so I don’t notice how different she is from other babies her age. Back to a place where I don’t have to explain twins, or autism, or CP, or anxiety, or hyperlexia, or gross motor delays to strangers who , no matter how pleasant,  probably can’t help but think: bad, lazy, rude, inattentive kids come from bad, lazy, rude, inattentive parents. But running and hiding and crying won’t do a lick of good. Instead, if we are to get what we need from this whole church experiment, I’ve got to start conversations with these pleasant strangers. Get to know them, and let them get to know us. And in that process, explain. About autism. And CP, anxiety, hyperlexia, gross motor delays. About Neener and Roo and Squiggles. About us. All in the hopes that we will be met with understanding. Tolerance. Acceptance. Maybe even love.

Such conversations are not easy to have. Especially when every moment spent in the company of new people in a new place requires running near-constant damage control. Roo, get away from the piano. Neener, it’s ok, the apple juice will taste pretty much the same. Squiggles, sshhhh. Roo, don’t touch, Neener stop interrupting, Squiggles, sshhhh. Roo-get-that-out-of-you-mouth-Neener-calm-down-Squiggles-stop-yelling-cat!-cat!-cat!-there-are-no-cats-in-here-and-can’t-you-see-I’m-trying-to-have-a-conversation-with-these-strangers-to-explain-that-I’m-not-somekinda-hyper-vigilant-stressed-out-freakazoid-mother! It’s a slow process. But, I managed to mention Roo’s autism about mid-way through our first morning there. Had to get that one out of the way early for the sake of the  Sunday school teacher. And luckily, she had pretty much recognized it before I even opened my mouth. Which was a huge relief. And with that knowledge, on our second day, she welcomed Roo with open arms, but without the expectations of typical behaviour and communication, and the judgment that so often follows when those expectations are not met. But then, the older gentleman who came to talk to the kids about the beliefs of the Natives, approached me after the Sunday school class. I was panic stricken when I saw him walking toward me. Neener had interrupted his story several times and couldn’t keep her hands off his feather collection and turtle shell. Roo kept trying to play the drum he brought, and rolled all over the sacred ceremonial blanket. With her boots on. Meanwhile, I frantically bounced around the room trying to keep Squiggles from crying, and alternated giving Neener the I’m Warning You face, and hissing the word behave in her ear, with giving Roo the Oh Jesus Not Again face, and hissing the words stop it at her. I was ashamed of my own behaviour as much as my kids, and I was ready for my dreams of acceptance and tolerance and love to come to an unceremonious end with whatever this guy was about to say. But instead, he smiled kindly, and said simply and sincerely, “Your children are filled with such a wonderful curiosity. It was really great to see that.” Which was exactly what I needed to hear – and see – too. Suddenly, I felt a surge in my own capacity for acceptance, tolerence and love – not only toward the pleasant UU strangers, but for my own weird, complex family as well.

This whole going-to-church idea is so crazy, it just might work. So brace yourselves, UU s. We’ll be back.

Dirty Dancing, Elementary School Style

I can’t remember the last time I went to a dance. Much less, a school dance. Much, much less a school dance at which I was stone-cold sober. But hey, I’m open to new experiences. So, resisting the siren song of a bottle of blueberry wine, I slapped on some lipstick and some sparkly earrings and went to a dance last night. A school dance. An elementary school dance. An elementary school Family Dance. With the whole Blister family.
We arrived fashionably late and fashionably dressed. And by fashionably dressed, I mean clothes that didn’t have big holes, paint, grease, smushed peas, marker stains or cat barf on them. And by fashionably late, I mean half an hour late, because that is how long it took to find five complete outfits that did not have big holes, paint, grease, smushed peas, marker stains or cat barf on them. In my infinite coolness, I even hauled out the coloured hairspray left over from Halloween and gave Roo some pink-tinged piggy tails, and Neener some pink streaked bangs. I did not, however, give them real platinum blond streaks in their hair. Or gobs of turquoise eye shadow. Or airbrushed-on belly tattoos. Which apparently makes me infinitely less cool than the parents of some of the other little girls in Neener and Roo’s class.

Now, here’s how I really know I’m getting old: upon entering the gym, it took me two whole seconds to decide that the music was way too loud. Ridiculously loud. Like I said, I can’t remember the last time I went to a dance, and maybe my kids’ auditory sensitivities are rubbing off on me, but since this was supposed to be a family dance, I figured the music would be at least a little shy of deafening. No-sir-ee-bob. Despite the fact that the crowd ranged from grey-haired grannies to bald-headed babies, the music volume seemed more geared toward glassy-eyed club goers whose senses have been sufficiently dulled by jello-shooters and doobies. Still, I decided to be a good sport. So, while Mr. stayed a safe distance away from the speakers with Squiggles securely  strapped to his chest, Neener and Roo and I ventured on to the dance floor to get our groove on.

I desperately hoped that “DJ Jeff” would skip the Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers kid music crap, and give us brave parental souls a chance to kick it old school. Maybe a little U Can’t Touch This.  Or some Maestro Fresh Wes, since I’m pretty sure I can still let my backbone slide without herniating a disc. Or, in my wildest fantasies, a little somethin’ somethin’ that would allow us tragically hip Gen X ‘rents to show those young whipper snappers what a mosh pit was all about. A safe, controlled, adult supervised mosh pit, of course. I could even get into The Chicken Dance, if nothing else. And indeed, DJ Jeff did skip the Hannah Montanna, the Jonas Brothers, and all that kid music crap. Instead, he went right to the obnoxious, hiphoppish dance music with highly sexualized and utterly inappropriate-for-my-five-year-old-daughters’-ears lyrics. From the booming speakers in the school gym, the Pussy Cat Dolls breathlessly sneered, “Dontcha wish you’re girlfriend was hot like me? Dontcha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Doncha wish your girlfriend was wrong like me? Dontcha?”  Then Akon – and a cluster of Grade three and four girls – crooned “I Wanna Make Love Right Now.” And then, the non-Madagascar version of “I Like to Move It” implored “All the girls to move ya body. And when ya move it, move it nice and sweet and sexy!” Yes, let the gyrating begin! Who doesn’t love to see elementary school girls moving their bodies nice and sweet and sexy! How else can they prove that they are hot wrong freaks who want to make love right now! Suddenly, I found myself praying for a little bit of the Jonas Brothers’ Disney-manufactured-purity-ring-wearin’-homeschooled-Jesus-worshippin’-family-friendly goodness.

Then, before I could get myself too twisted up about the evening’s soundtrack, some sadistic bonehead masquerading as a responsible adult organizer of this “Family Dance” started the one thing more dangerous to a crowd of little kids than a mosh pit: a stampede. Yes, someone thought it would be fun to toss a few giant beach balls out into the crowd and on to the dance floor. Which resulted in a swarm of twenty or thirty kids running and charging and quickly shifting directions as they chased the beach balls that bounced and bobbed above their heads. By the grace of my lightening quick kid-picking-up reflexes, Roo was saved from being trampled when a wave of people knocked her down. And by the grace of the dirty looks several parents who’d been hit in the face with beach balls shot at whoever’s stupid idea it was, the fiasco came to an abrupt halt before anyone got hurt. But by then, we’d had enough. Neener, Roo and Squiggles had had just enough fun, and were now teetering on the verge of over-tired meltdowns. And Mr. and I wanted to get out of there before they started passing out jello-shooters and playing that sick pedophiliacal Nickelback song about the innocent-looking, pink-thong wearing, thumb-sucking girl teasing all the sugar daddies on the dance floor. The last thing we needed was to hear that hairy old creep singing the line “You look so much cuter with something in your mouth.”

Now, the last time I checked, I was not a prude. Although admittedly, I have not done a thorough check on my prude status since late 2004. Still, we let our kids listen to some pretty grown up music. They love Garbage and Weezer and Radiohead and R.E.M. And they know all the words – even the ‘curse words’ – to the Joan Jett song Bad Reputation, and they sing it with glee. And they totally dig Motorhead and Ozzy Osborne. But I don’t let my five year old daughters listen to songs about having sex. And I don’t let them wear makeup. And I don’t encourage them to have little “boyfriends”, or to make being pretty or sexy or cute their biggest goals in life. But pop culture sure does. So, the whole family dance experience made me feel like a big gigantic prude. Again. Especially because the only parents there who looked even remotely shocked were Mr. and I. Everyone else just seemed to smile – perhaps slightly uncomfortably – and accept that that’s just the way it is for kids today. It might be the way it is, but I can not bring myself to believe that it is ok. Or that I shouldn’t somehow try to fight against it for the sake of my daughters.

So I’m not sure what to do. Do we boycott the school’s family dances from now on, even though the kids had a pretty good time? Do I join the school association that is responsible for planning the dances, and risk coming off like a puritanical neo-con prude when I suggest that some elements of the last one were rather inappropriate? Or do I just show up at the next Family Dance and politely point out to DJ Jeff that the music is too damn loud and too damn dirty for a bunch of little kids and their parents? Ask him if he’s got any MC Hammer? Or how ’bout some Joan Jett? Or Weezer? Or Ozzy? Yeah, DJ Jeff, play some good ol’ wholesome Ozzy Osbourne. I can show the kids how to rock out to Crazy Train. But I might need a glass of blueberry wine or two first.

Snow Guts, Snow Glory

This just in: Our city has been gripped by a mysterious, frightening condition known as ‘Winter.’

This also just in: Winter increases the risk of white, fluffy icy-like particles falling from the sky, a phenomenon known as ‘Snow’.

And now, for this late breaking news: Snow poses a clear and present danger to children. And teachers. And all vehicles on all roads. And therefore, due to impending snow-related disaster, there will be no school today.

I got up this morning with the intention of writing a thoughtful, insightful post about some thoughtful, insightful parenting issues. But all that got tossed out the window and into the horrid fluffy whiteness  for the sake of a good old fashioned rant. About effing winter and effing snow, and effing school boards canceling effing school because of a bit of effing snow in the middle of the effing winter.

Last night, in my magnanimous magnificence, I told Mr that he could sleep in this morning. I would single handedly handle getting Neener and Roo ready for school while he got some much deserved extra shut-eye. And I did. Amidst changing poopy diapers and taking care of other assorted school-related administrative details,  I managed to get Neener and Roo mostly adequately fed, dressed, washed, and brushed all on my own. Mr. got up just in time to embark on the toboggan ride to school. Looked like a great day for it. Nice and warm, with some light flurries drifting down from the heavens. He laughed and said, ‘Hey, are you sure there’s school? It is snowing.’ It was funny because our school board has set a precedent lately of canceling school based on weather forecasts that are dubious, at best. Completely fictional, at worst. I laughed as I shuffled them all out the door, eager to spend a few minutes playing Hop Little Bunnies with Squiggles before settling down to work for the morning. Then, I thought, just to be safe, I’d better call the cancellation hotline. It seemed ludicrous. So ludicrous that I laughed at myself as I facetiously dialed the number. But I did it anyway just to make absolute sure. We’ve been caught off guard more than once with this whole Surprise! Snow Day thing. And whaddyaknow. School was, indeed, canceled. Impending weather, the serious sounding voice on the other end of  the cancellation hotline claimed. So I poked my head out into the impending weather, which to me looked an awful lot like a nice, slightly snowy winter morning, and I hollered for Mr. and the kids to come back. They could barely make out the words “God damn school is canceled!” because my shock was manifesting as maniacal laughter. As it so often does.

Which begs the question: When did we become such paranoid pussies? Since when is the possibility of snow, even a few substantial inches, and some slushy driving reason enough to call off school for the entire day? I’m not old enough to pull the ol’ ‘When I was your age I walked 15 miles to school, through four feet of snow year-round, up-hill both ways,’ but I am old enough to pull the ol’ ‘ When I was your age, reasonably sound scientific studies had shown that neither children nor school buses nor education professionals were made of sugar, and therefore if exposed to precipitation, it was generally agreed that they would not dissolve.’  And they only canceled school when it was a blizzard fo’ shizzard. Certainly not because the weather girl on Live at Five said it might start snowing sometime in the next 24-48 hours. Or because – gasp! Horror of horrors! – there was already actual snow falling from the actual sky and landing on the actual ground and possibly, even landing on actual children! Lord help us!

Luckily, our family is not in a position where a school cancellation plunges us into panic, scrambling for childcare, or missing work. We can go with the snow flow. Others are not so lucky. We simply adjusted our plans for the day. Instead of working this morning, I enlisted the kids to help me clean the basement. And instead of playing nine rounds of Hop Little Bunnies with Squiggles, and farting around on facebook all afternoon, we painted Valentines boxes and learned how to make mango lassi and had a beach party and sang Blondie songs together.

This just in: My kids would rather spend the day goofing off with their family than pulling on their effing snowsuits to trek through the effing snow only to sit through another effing day of  effing school in the middle of the effing winter.

And come to think of it, so would I. As long as I can get some sort of guarentee that tomorrow’s not gonna be a snow day too.

All Psyched Up

If you listen very carefully, you might hear it some time next week. A low, steady, evily amused little twitter. That’s the sound of me snickering as I saunter down to the school with a copy of the report from Roo’s cognitive assessment in hand.

The assessment took three and a half hours. From the other side of a two-way mirror, I watched as the psychologist led Roo through a series of activities and questions, ranging from tedious to even more tedious. I watched as Roo struggled to recreate complicated block patterns. As she kept leaning over to get an upside down glimpse at the psychologist’s notes. As she wandered away from the table to preen in front of  the two-way mirror, making kissy faces and getting her butt waggle on. As she ate a giant bowl of teddybear crackers followed by a giant bowl of gold fish crackers, and declared the hospital “The best place to have a snack!” As she gave the psychologist an interesting definition of the word holiday when asked. “A holiday is a day when you get to play hookey from school. I’m having a holiday today!” Three and a half hours. By the end, Roo was slumping in her seat, twirling her hair into a knotted little nest, and hardly able to hold a pencil. And that was when she was faced with the toughest activities. Lots of printing. Where’s Waldo-esque exercises, and other busy visuals. Spelling. Math. The child amazed me with her tenacity and composure. And the results of all that testing are probably going to shock the shit out of the school.

On overall intelligence and cognitive ability,  Roo scored in the top 10% of kids her age. Math skills typical of a 7 or 8 year old. Spelling and reading? She’s currently functioning at a mid-grade five level. I’m not one to put a great deal of weight into test results, but I can’t help feel a certain sense of validation. Like maybe I’ll be taken more seriously when I tell Roo’s teachers that she is both autistic and gifted, because I have paperwork that backs me up on both accounts. Now I have the ammo I need to make sure that her Individualized Program Plan is not exclusively focused on her weaknesses.  It must also address her strengths, and her need for a more challenging, enriching education. I’m not sure at what point the system officially slaps a gifted label on a kid’s file, but I’m thinking literacy skills that test five grade levels above what’s expected is probably sufficient. Probably.

And as much as I’m savouring the sweet taste of I told you so, something even more important came out of that assessment appointment. The conversation I had with the psychologist. For years, most of our attention has been focussed on Roo. She’s had all the appointments and consultations and diagnosis, and recieved the lion’s share of help, patience, and understanding as a result. Meanwhile, we’ve cobbled together ways of handling Neener’s less obvious but potentially more worrisome issues on our own. But over the past year, we’ve reached a point with Neener – her staggering intelligence, her social confusion, her emotional fragility – that clearly requires more than we alone can provide.  So, I described Neener to the psychologist who did  Roo’s assessment, and asked her for advice on how to get some consults, some assessments, and maybe some help for Neener – and us – too. I basically wanted to know the appropriate entry point into the system for a kid like Neener. Should we see our family doctor, with whom we might be able to get an appointment in a month or two, and hope for a referal? The mental health central intake line, where you’re not much of a priority unless you utter the words “danger to herself or others?” School psychologist? Or more accurately, the lengthy wait-list to see a school psychologist? Or should we just suck in our guts, tighten our belts even tighter, and shell out a few grand for a private psychologist? The doctor listened to my concerns, made some notes, and then said the words every parent with hyper-intelligent, socially challenged, emotionally volatile kids longs to hear: “I’ll put in a referral and see if we can get her fast-tracked in to see someone.” Which means more paperwork, more appointments, more questions. But hopefully, more answers too. The only thing I enjoy more than walking into schools, reports in hand, doing my evil little I told you so snicker is actually having the answers I need to help my kids find their way in the world.

Colouring outside the lines

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. I was caught off guard. And I despise being caught off guard.

We’ve been anxiously waiting for over a year for Roo’s cognitive assessment, and finally got word that it is to happen at the end of this month. This assessment will yield a pile of doctor-generated paperwork that will result in an even bigger pile of school-generated paperwork, all so that Roo can have appropriate access to what is rightfully hers: a chance to learn and grow in an educational environment that takes into account her strengths and weaknesses.  But before all of that happens, the doctor wants to know more about Roo, socially, emotionally and intellectually. And how is that to be accomplished? Why, with more paperwork, of course. And that is where I was caught off guard. I didn’t expect the answering of questions and the checking of boxes to be so frustrating. So dehumanizing.

First, there were the forms to be filled out by  Roo’s “team” at the school. Now to be fair, the form does ask that they attempt to highlight her weaknesses rather than strengths, as those are the areas where the main recommendations will be made. And boy oh boy, did the “team” take that to heart. The form is littered with  failure to do this and inappropriate that. They note that she does not like to colour. Or stay seated. Or take part in gym class. That she is stubborn. That she displays inappropriate classroom behaviours and anxiety management skills. That she has a tendency to ignore people. That dressing herself in her outdoor winter clothes is problematic. That she is prone to screaming and meltdowns when forced to comply. And that she refuses to print, preferring instead to scribble what she approximates to cursive writing. Which is all pretty much true. Except for the last one. Yes, she refuses to print. But that is probably because she learned how to print two years ago. And those so-called scribbles that she approximates to cursive writing are, in fact, actual cursive writing and it is damn near legible. And no, she is not a co-operative colourer. She doesn’t see the point of colouring in someone else’s drawings when she could be making her own. So, she tends to colour outside of the lines. She doodles, and adds her own details to pictures she is supposed to just colour, like a good little student. Apparently, that is a problem.

As for the rest of  what they filled in on that form – ignorant, insensitive, and overly judgmental language aside – the “team” pretty much got it right. All the things they noted are part and parcel to being an autistic 5 year old with cerebral palsy. So I can’t really blame them for callin’ ‘em like they see ‘em. What I can blame them for is, after coldly chronicling every issue that Roo has in school, they didn’t give us a little ray of light when they had the chance. Buried in the messy details of her lackings, her shortcomings, her problems, there was one question on that form that asked explicitly about the good stuff: Does this child have any special abilities? And they answered it with one stark word: No. This is a child who has been reading with startling comprehension and fluidity since she was two years old. A child who can spell almost any word she has ever laid eyes on, and even some she has not. A child who correctly identifies notes on a piano by ear, and has taught herself to play several songs. A five year old child who draws things like this…

…has no special skills? Really? The “team” revealed, with a single word on a single question, that they are clearly not paying any attention to who my daughter actually is, and what she is capable of doing. But they sure as hell have been paying attention to who she is not and what she can’t do, as is evidenced by everything else written on that form. Sorry “team”, my confidence in you is pretty much shot. Think Roo is stubborn and problematic? Wait til I march into that school with a knot in my face and a list of demands.

Then, there are the forms I am filling out, many of which amount to ‘Is your child bad? Circle yes or no.’ They ask if my child is defiant, disobedient, immature, impatient, angry, violent. No, I want to holler. None of those words describe my sweet, smart, smiling little girl! But she has trouble following instructions, and she doesn’t always respond to what people say to her. She does things that other kids her age have long since outgrown, and she can’t always control her impulses. And sometimes she screams, and spits, and breaks things, and says she hates everything, and tries to hit and bite and scratch herself and others. So I’m supposed to circle yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. But I don’t. I leave some lines blank. Or I circle yes and no. Or I write sometimes where no sometimes exists. I use the margins of the form to make notes, write explanations, put my child and her life in context. I refuse to squeeze the entirety of Roo’s complex world into a one-word answer, or a check-marked box. Which, I guess, makes me defiant. Disobedient. Non-compliant. Mother fails to follow simple instructions on questionaire, and displays inappropriate form-filling-out skills. Yeah. I never liked colouring inside the lines either.