"My support group told me to go to hell"

ISO: a support group for mothers of children with diagnosed pervasive developmental disorder (PDD), with a potential secondary diagnosis of apraxia of speech.

Confused yet? So am I.

Colin has just turned three years old, and we are now waaaaaaaaaay past the platitudes stage ("Oh, don't worry, he'll talk when he's ready!" or "Einstein didn't talk until he was four") and are now onto "So why didn't you get help for this kid sooner?"

(/banging head against wall in frustration)

I am actually considering writing a book (ha! I'm always considering writing a book) about Colin's experiences in his world of no communication. I don't want to say "world of autism," because his latest speech therapist doesn't believe that the PDD diagnosis is 100% accurate. It is so hard to know what to call this.

How about "Misunderstood Child Syndrome"?
Or HDSS ("He Don't Say Shit")?

I love Colin so much. My heart has broken a hundred times for him. It especially breaks when he sees other children and smiles this huge smile but just stands on the outskirts, silently hoping they'll ask him to join them, because he can't speak, so he can't ask.

My heart breaks when bitches at WalMart and assholes on the street (moms and dads of "regular" children, respectively) make sideways comments to the effect of "Lady, why don't you make your child behave?" Because you see, my child not only looks "normal"...he looks beautiful. And IS beautiful. Inside and out.

Just look at that face.

It works against him--because there is no outward sign that anything is amiss. So people just assume that he's spoiled, I'm terrible and we should both be sequestered in a quiet back room somewhere rather than out in public.

But he's not bad, and I'm not an idiot with no parenting skills. Or, well...he's not bad; let's just leave the sentence at that...

Which is why it is so inappropriate and so cruel that lately, I am resenting him. I am resenting the fact that after three years of nonstop attempts to get through to him, of holding and cherishing him, of taking him to classes and therapies, sticking up for him, protecting him...I still have never heard him call me "Mama".

Resentful that I have a seven-week-old and a three-year-old in the house and sometimes I can't tell which of them it is that's wailing that high-pitched, infant's wordless wail.

Resentful that I still see no light at the end of this extremely long tunnel.

Get me to a support group. Quickly!

Do they have one for Moms Who Are Wacked But Mean Well?

Sign me up. Quickly.

An intimate question

Okay, so...let's say a person were to drop scalding hot tea on her foot while dancing to one-hit-wonder 80s tunes. Would that make her, well...pathetic?

Oh. Really?

Um, okay. (Slinking off to apply ice to my foot.)

Holy crap. We got out of the house!

Mark the date. On July 28, 2006, Mel and her children GOT OUT OF THE HOUSE.

And I don't mean for one of Colin's many speech/occupational therapy sessions or special classes, or for doctor's visits, or to pick up tampons at WalMart. I mean out...to....

(drumroll please)

Bevery Hills!

Now don't get all excited. Hubby Dave works there. He took us in for Pizza Day.

But who gives a hoot...we got OUT! Out. Mwah-hah-hah-hah!

Not that I really needed** it or anything. I mean things are under control in the house. Really. Truly. I mean it.

(Okay, so...when can I get the fuck out AGAIN??? Foam, foam, gurgle, lather...)

**(Photo credit to: www.acm.vt.edu)

What's not to love?

As August approaches--traditionally, the month that I begin thinking, "Hey, the summer's ending; fall is just around the corner"--I am missing New Jersey like mad.

New Jersey. What's not to love?

Not that Southern California doesn't have its perks. Some positives v. negatives about Cali:

1. Pro: the weather is always the same.
Con: The weather is ALWAYS the same.

2. Pro: People are thinner and more beautiful.
Con: The competition for "smallest waist and biggest boobs" can get pretty steep and can run one up tens of thousands of dollars...or lots of toilet flushes to wash away the bullemic evidence.

3. Pro: It's expensive as hell, which must mean it's a quality place to be, right?
Con: It's expensive as hell. Period.

4. We're only forty miles from Los Angeles!
Con: Those forty miles take an hour and twenty minutes of driving through traffic hell...on a good day.

But what I really miss about New Jersey...and yes, this is a diss to LA...are the trees. The beautiful, big, gorgeous, blooming, expansive green trees with branches that are so fleshed out they touch eachother across the top of the street in summertime. The beautiful deciduous yellows, oranges and crimsons of fall. And yes...even the eerie, Blair-Witch-esque naked branches of winter. (See? She didn't JUST write about crazies.)

Somebody get me back to New Jersey, home of the Devils, the Garden State Parkway and the middle finger**. Please. In time for the mid-October "peak" leaf season, please.

Sniffle.

**(Credit to www.wheelchairanglingandhamradio.co.uk. By the way, I think he meant "koochie koochie," not "couchie couchie".)

Would you have sex with this man?

God knows I would. Unfortunately, I doubt the feeling would go both ways...at least judging from the way he's holding onto that stick.

Okay...I love this song so much that I am embarrassed and ashamed into dissing the video just as an excuse to post it in my blog. So here goes: Have you EVER seen a worse video? I mean really. It honestly looks like one of those home-grown thingamabobs that people laugh at on YouTube. (Oh, wait. People ARE laughing at this on YouTube.)

Check out how the dude jumps right into the lyrics. No intro. It's a homophobia-inducing hit-and-run! You're left looking left and right and asking the air, "Did I miss the beginning or did they just forget to make one?" Then he drops his Slinky and gets so mad that he's forced to spraypaint his shoes. What IS that? I mean the possibilties for humor here are pretty much limitless.

And wait. Are those men (though I do use the term loosely) wearing...legwarmers? On second glance, no, they're high-tops. It's hard to tell; the whole thing goes by so fast (thank God).

And what about the two little boys slapping eachother? SOMEBODY STOP ME...

I just did an impromptu dance for my husband while singing this song. Just to make sure that he never EVER wants to have sex with me again. Hubby booed my efforts, so I tried out my singing talents on my three-year-old instead. The little guy put his hand over my mouth. (No, I'm not making that up. He did like the video, though. Laughed through the whole damned thing.)

What can I say? I love the 80s. I remember them, sort of...at least when I'm taking my Alzheimer's medication.

LONG LIVE THE 80s!

A WalMart sellout (7.16.06)

A WalMart Sellout...that's me. My whole family, actually.

The whole WalMart experience is new to me. For many years, I refused to set sandal inside the doors of any company that performed such evil practices as the Mart. Paying its employees minimum wage plus a ha'penny...outsourcing to East Buglefrig, where five-year-olds sewed until their fingers bled, and had their toenails removed with a rusty spork if they failed to produce fast enough...never, NEVER was I going to visit HellMart. Oh, no, not I. Not even should the rest of the world's tampon production suddenly cease and my every pair of Fruit of the Loom underwear snap.

And the fact that this mega-monied shopfest pulled market share from smaller, more home-grown, granola-crunchey boutiques really pissed me off. I have always been one to champion the underdog (having been one myself on many an occasion). I didn't just hate the store. I hated the ideal.

Then...I stopped working.

Following twenty solid years of 40-hour work weeks, I am, for the first time in my life, "at home". (Eek.) My family is on one salary. We're not hungry, exactly (I mean just look at us...can you say "flab fest"?)...but we are, well, doing without. Well, okay...so we were already doing without. Now, we're doing without...even more.

Satan obviously oversaw what happened next. We moved from the east coast to sunny southern California...right (drumroll please) down the street from, yep, you guessed it: a WalMart. I can walk there. (And often do. Read on...)

After moving, we quickly realized that sitting on cardboard boxes to watch a TV we didn't have just did not sound appealing. And the place was getting, well...really dirty. Throwing up his hands in despair, dear hubby Dave announced to me one afternoon, with a sob in his voice, "We really have to get a vacuum cleaner. I'm going to go to..." Here he swallowed hard. "...WalMart."

A hush fell over the household. I think it fell over the entire town. I waited silently, as an 1860s wife might have waited to see whether her husband was really going to join the Confederates after all. And off went hubby.

He came back all aglow. "I got it! I got it! For THIRTY dollars!"

I fell to my knees, and we praised the Almighty Wal together.

And that was it. We've never looked back.

Sure, I still feel bad for the little Guatemalan children who are beaten with nail-embedded wooden boards for screwing on Equate brand toothpaste caps inadequately. But damn. Have you heard? White Cloud diapers are EIGHT dollars. Did you hear me? EIGHT. Regularly!

Okay...I'm off. Gotta go sell my soul. Kotex is on sale.

Evan's theme song (6.20.06)

Here it is, for your listening pleasure...Baby Evan's theme song.

Go to hell, Mickey Mouse! (7.19.06)

Okay, am I pure evil? I HATE Mickey Mouse.

Everybody loves Mickey. Everybody. And the whole Disney-fantasy-thingie. So why don't I?

God that mouse just grates on my every last nerve.

My children are watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on Playhouse Disney right now. Everything in that show is Mousker-fucking-something. "What's wrong, Goofy? You say Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep? Get the Mousker-binoculars! We'll locate the sheep and then reel it in with my special Mousker-fishing rod!"

The problem solving skills of this group are also infuriating. I mean holy heck. You've gotta be kidding me. "Uh-Mousker-oh, Mousketeers. We need water to make our special Mousker-punch...but the Mousker-faucet isn't working! I know. We'll glue together eighty-nine straws, attach the last straw to a bird, and have the bird fly off to the pond in the forest and stick the end in. Then we'll suck on this end to get water going and...Mousker-voila!"

You're Mousker-fuckin' kidding me.

I don't get it. I don't get the whole "we all love Mickey Mouse!" thing. Ugh. Mousker-fuck off.

I will close with this Disney joke:

Mickey wants to divorce Minnie, so he goes to his lawyer. The lawyer listens to Mickey's story, then says, "Mickey, I don't often say this, but I would hate to see a divorce in this case. You two were made for one another. I mean just because Minnie's a little crazy..."

"I didn't say she's a little crazy," Mickey interrupts. "I said she's fucking Goofy!"

(p.s. I have broken my own record for "Most Uses of the Word 'Fuck' in a Blog Entry". And what prompted it? A cute little cartoon animal, beloved the world-'round since 19-freaking-30. God I need help.)

Okay. Well, yeah. He's here! (6.16.06)

How's THAT for a strong title! Yep. He's here!

I haven't blogged since before I received my Evan-ectomy on June 9th. It went well. Although C-sections hurt like a bitch! But...it really wasn't bad, as far as belly-slicings go. I held Dave's hand so tightly I thought it might just fall off and he'd only be left with one. And to make matters worse, it was his mouse and joystick hand. That could have been bad!

In the end, though, Evan arrived at 11:36 AM, crying loudly, looking very strong and very very very very cute! (I'm not biased, though. He just IS cute. Also, I'm allowed to say that because just like my other two...this one does NOT look like me. He's his father all over again, only with brown hair.) His eyes already look dark blue. I think they'll be either blue or hazel. And he has golden-brown hair.

Evan's stats:

Weight: 7 lbs., 14 oz...my smallest baby ever! (Joey was 8-4 and Colin was 9-1, but they were both on time and Evan was a week early.)

Length: 20 inches (Same as Joey!--2 inches shorter than Colin.)

Apgar score (health score): 9 at one minute; 9 at 5 minutes (Those are good scores.)We love him...he is so funny...he makes funny faces and he smiles constantly, and not just in his sleep, either.

He's amazing!

After the baby...or babies (5.16.06)

So...what does one do with one's life after she has officially closed up shop on procreating?

I have already signed the little thingie stating that I want my tubes tied on the table when I have my C with Evan. Whatever it takes. I love my children and I wanted them all, especially this, my last one, but I've been shooting them out for 20 years now. I figure it's either time to a) quit it, or b) take up life in a trailer and get a bad perm. So I'm taking Option a).

I asked the doctor about the procedure but he was very vague. I told him to do whatever must be done in order to ensure that I, a haggard, craggy old thing of nearly 39 (holy shit!), never become knocked up again. I figure he can cut, tie, yank, remove whatever is in there, clamp it all, put it on his shelf as a keepsake, and maybe for extra insurance he could tattoo "DO NOT ENTER" below my belly button.

But now comes...after.

As a little girl, I thought about "becoming a woman". As a young woman, I thought about "becoming a mother". (Not JUST about that, but you know what I mean.) As a young mother I thought about becoming a mother again, possibly. And 17 years later it happened, and then again 3 years after that. Which brings us to now.

What's the "after" this time?

Getting old and dying, I guess.

What fun!!!

I guess I have no excuse any more to put off really digging into writing this book. I don't want to become one of those horrible old ladies who still believe their kids (even if those kids are by now 30 years old) are their whole life (sorry for the bad grammar there). Yughhhhhhh.

Is it "me" time soon?

Seriously?

Holy crap. I don't know what to do with myself. In only about 18-20 more years, Colin and his brother will both be in college. And then, after 40 years (yes, 40 years) of motherhood, I will finally be able to greet Dave at the door wearing nothing but a goofy grin.

Poor Dave.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

I Dream of Cigarettes (5.05.06)

Now I KNOW I'm going to win the Mother of the Year award for this one.

My son Colin just pulled a chair over to the kitchen cabinet, took out a box of macaroni and cheese and handed it to me. A clear indication that he wants mac and cheese for dinner. Fine, no problem, but "it will take a while to cook," I explained. My eyes searched the cabinet. I grabbed a box of Cheezits, shook them at him and said, "Here. In the meantime, have a few cigarettes to hold you over."

Oh yes. Exemplary Parenting 101. Don't worry...I don't REALLY ply my three-year-old with a regular supply of smokes. It was just something that slipped out. Freudian times ten.

Why? Because even though I quit smoking eleven months ago, I STILL THINK ABOUT THE BUGGERS...all the time.

Even in my sleep. (No, that's not me. She's a lot thinner. Her ass actually fits on the bed. But JUST her ass, it would seem.)

Yes, it's true: not only do I think about cigarettes when I get into the car, when I get out of the car, when I'm riding in the car, when I am waving bye-bye to hubby as he leaves for work, when things are stressful, when things are calm, when things are indefineable as either stressful or calm, or when it's a day that has a "Y" in it...but I have regular dreams about them.

Interestingly, they're usually in connection with my mother, who died nine years ago. She had been a heavy smoker, some two and a half packs of the "longies" a day (100s acceptable, 120s preferable). In these lovely dreams, I am either bumming a cigarette off Mom or am handing one to her. I've even had dreams that I stole packs from her bedroom drawer and accidentally came upon photos and other things that I NEVER wanted to see. (Did someone say "Freud" a while ago there?)

When I first quit smoking, I heard/read that it would take three days for the nicotine to leave my system, an uncertain handful of additional days for the other toxins to make their exit, and three weeks to get over the psychological addiction, because it takes three weeks for a new habit to be formed, according to leading shrinks.

It has been eleven months now.

ELEVEN months.

And still I'm apparently trying to offer them to my clean, precious baby as a snack.

Anyway, if anyone is interested in pursuing this strange phenomenon with me, please feel free. But...while we're chatting, mind if I bum a cig off ya?

Gas Attack (4.30.06)

Holy jumping Jaysus on a popsicle stick, have you noticed gas prices???Actually, how could you not? Unless you ride a Schwinn to work.I don't understand how the current administration could be turning a blind eye to all this. Oh, wait, that's right...they CAUSED it. Mystery solved.

Of course, as any fundamentalist freak-o (or anyone from Fox News) will tell you, our current admin is working hard--as usual--on this problem. As well as all the other problems. Night and day!

Please. Get a Democrat in office before I choke on my own vomit over hearing THAT GRATING VOICE telling me once again how much he cares. Eeew.

This has been a public service announcement.

Depressed and Angry (4.27.06)

Okay, fuck being cute, funny and glib.

Colin had his assessment to receive services through the school district once he turns three in July. The assessor says he is not only speech delayed, he is cognitively delayed.

Code for "He is mentally retarded."

Except they don't SAY "retarded" anymore. That would be like calling an indigenous American an "Indian" or calling an Asian "Oriental". It makes perfect sense, though. After all, if we don't CALL him retarded then suddenly he'll have more than a five-word vocabulary, right? All of a sudden, he'll completely understand us when we say "Colin, go get your cup and hand it to me." He will catch RIGHT up to his peers. If only we avoid the word. Right?

God damned fucking hypocritical, if you ask me. Or even if you don't.

My head hurts. I'm going to bed. I'll write something funny later. Much later. When I don't feel like raging against God or whatever passes for it anymore.

HE'S SO BUSTED! (4.25.06)

OMG!!!!!!!!!!! Dave was busted for COMING TO A ROLLING STOP. (Oh these L.A. cops must be SO bored. Didn't they have a non-consentual sodomy to attend to?)

They gave him a ticket. And a hard time. (No, not THIS kind of a hard time.) In order to avoid an insurance hike, he has to go to traffic school.

Poor Dave. But, HOW COOL IS THIS? MY HUSBAND IS A CRIMINAL! I have just fallen in love all over again.

More Baby Sh*t (4.25.06)

Well, not literally.

Okay, we think we have the date all set for my C-section with Evan. It will probably be June 8th.
We discussed June 6th, 06 but have decided against that date.

It is very weird to be choosing the date of one's child's birth. Should I be doing this by astrology or something? What if the 9th would have been a good date but the 8th means he'll have club feet and be a Republican?

It's a little weird, but...well, we've gotta pick SOME date or other. So, folks, pencil it in. Mel gets cut, trussed and sewn on June 8th!

We are all excited to meet Evan! Well, except for Colin, who loves to smack me in the expanding gut with his DVDs.

Are We Too Attached? (4.17.06)

Okay. The countdown to Baby Evan begins. We think he will arrive somewhere around June 10th. That gives us seven and a half more weeks to prepare the king of the castle, Lord Colin.

I had thought by this point, Colin (who will be nearly three in June) would be mature and separated enough from me--in a healthy, independent way, of course--to be able to accept another human being in my lap.

But lately I'm just not so sure.

Maybe it's the way I have to let him into the bathroom when I pee, because the separation is just too much for him otherwise.

Or perhaps it's the way he kisses me and then thrusts his face fully against mine in order to be able to fall asleep. (Nothing like being breathed wetly on for an hour while the child "settles in".)

Still...little children are supposed to love their mothers. Aren't they? And anyway, it's not like we're TOO attached or anything. Right?**

But it does concern me a little that I have to literally peel him from my body in order to simply turn over in bed. (Cosleeping has new meaning: Colin apparently is going to be crashing in from his Psych 101 class and saying, "Oh man, I'm bushed. Move over, Dad.")

Oh well. Eventually he'll be pretending he doesn't know me--so I'd better enjoy this while it lasts!

**That really was just a joke...in case anyone thinks I'm poking fun at people with actual anomalies. It's movie makeup, not the real deal.

"Happy Birthday Dear Hitler, Happy Birthday to You" (4.20.06)

April 20th is my husband Dave's birthday.

One of the first things he told me--in those early dating days where one is comparing one's stats to that of the other, searching like hell for confirmation that they ARE meant to be together forever and ever and ever--was, "My birthday is April 20th. That's Hitler's birthday."

He thought it was hillarious. I was pretty surprised. Hitler's birthday? HITLER'S birthday? Who the hell shares Hitler's birthday? And...who laughs about it? Only my dear husband, that's who! But then again, he can afford to be generous about this. After all, they're nothing alike. You can tell by these pictures. Here is Adolph Hitler. By contrast, here is a recent picture of my husband Dave. He's the one on the far right.

And personality-wise...he is funny, sweet, brilliant, easygoing and loveable. (Dave...not Hitler.)

So...I got past the hurdle of being terrified of marrying someone who was born on the same day of the year as one of the most terrifying men in history. Just in time for Dave to let me know that 4-20 is also the code for a drug bust.

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm............

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAVID! I love you!

The Surgery is Done (4.02.06)

Colin had his surgery done. He had his adenoids out. The doctor had suggested (ahead of time, of course) that we also have his tonsils removed, since most adenoid patients eventually have tonsil troubles as well, and Colin's tonsils were already swollen. Then he said we should also replace Colin's ear tubes.

Jesus Christ. Anything else? Why didn't he offer to throw in a little dermabrasion while he was at it?

It was the week from hell. Colin cried and slept (not at the same time) for a week. I am so glad it's all over with now.

God He's Hot (3.29.06)

Recently I've experienced a rash of fellow myspace-cadets asking me for "special favors". (Apparently they didn't get the memo that I'm married. And pregnant. Oh, yeah, and psycho.)

To this I say...I am sorry, but my heart belongs to only one man. And here he is:
YEAH, baby

Shhhhhhhh...don't tell my husband about my secret crush. GOD but he's hot. Tell you what, we can split him. You take one cheek, I'll take the other. Can I have the less hairy one?

(p.s. The above WAS a joke...just so there's no misunderstanding here. In fact, I'm currently undergoing psychiatric treatment for post traumatic stress syndrome just from having viewed this picture.)

Joey Got a Raise (3.21.06)

This isn't new-news, but I wanted to post it since I only started this blog recently. Joey got yet ANOTHER raise! Pretty soon he'll be running the state of New Jersey. He'll seize control of all the building contractors and garbage collectors and with his millions, will rule the tri-state area from a room with HOPEFULLY a computer. (Right now, where he's living, they don't have internet access. AHHHHHHHHHHHH, how is this possible? That's like not having running water!)

Anyway, Joey could not be reached for comment, but here's a recent picture .

I'm so proud of my boy!

Baby Names (3.18.06)

So what do you all (oh who am I kidding...who reads this thing, anyway?) think of the first name "Dane" for our little boy?

I know he isn't technically a Dane, but the names "Norwegian" and "Polack" don't have as nice a ring.

Mama's Little Devil (3.01.06)

Okay, so I'm due June 17th. Now wouldn't it be funny if Little Boy came on June 6th instead?

6.6.06.

You know what's twisted? My husband would LOVE it. I told him about that and it completely cracked him up. (But then again...he's a Buddhist and doesn't believe in the devil so it's all good to him.)

I am just picturing inviting people over to see little Mephostopholes Henson. "Look, we got his first baby pictures done at JC Penney!"

California Spiders (3.01.06)

Okay, so I've been here a year now but I still haven't gotten used to the spiders.

The thing that most freaks me out is, which are harmless little bug-eating friends and which are hideous spawned-from-Satan bastards just lying in wait to bite you and produce gangrenous necrosis (I won't insert a link to that--the spider pics are bad enough!)?

Because frankly...I've seen a variety already and they ALL look like karmic punishment waiting to happen.

I once read that the average person swallows eight spiders during his or her lifetime, mostly (mostly?!?) during sleep.

And with that, I'm off to bed. (twitch, tweak, shiver)

Back to the Future

I'm lazy.

That's why I am copying and pasting several months' worth of commentaries from a previous blog to this one, rather than starting from scratch. So my first entry--which will show up as the "oldest" one--is actually newer than my oldest ones.

Um.........

Okay, never mind. On with the show. Enjoy!