SINCERELY, MICHAEL

 

 

OLIVIA OWENS

 

 

 

Copyright 2013. Olivia Owens.

All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

 

To three amazing men – I am blessed to have you in my life. You inspire me, you bring me hope, and

you make me want to live.

 

Mother – I don’t know what I would do without you.

Laura – thank you for keeping me insane.

 

Ryan – thank you for all the amazing advice.

 

My life is so much sweeter because of all of you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sincerely, Michael

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2013. Olivia Owens.

All Rights Reserved.

Prologue

 

Hey Bruisie –

 

It is 3 a.m. and only the glow of the television screen is available to guide me. But I just could not resist the opportunity to tell you just how much I love you and how much more meaningful life is, now that you are here.

You are getting so big! Yesterday, I had to adjust your jumper because you had gotten taller. My, how you love that thing! You jump so high and smile so wide when you are in there.

Sometimes you swing around in it like you are using a hula-hoop. But right now, you are sleeping peacefully with a bottle in your mouth.

You are so cute! Granted, you have had a great deal of gas tonight, and my enchanted visions of you are frequently interrupted with loud “toots.” But that is okay. You take after me in so many ways. When you are awake, I like to feel your knees – they are so soft. You have not yet started to crawl, but once you do, your knees will never be like that again, so I try to cherish the moments while they are here.

You have really amazed me in the past week or so because you are becoming able to stand up on your own. Yes, you need a little holding from your mom or me – we either hold your hands or your hips; but then, you do all the rest. You lock your knees, plant your feet, and look around. You seem quite proud of yourself and so am I. The only problem is that when I exclaim “Good boy!” you get excited and go kerplop, right into my lap.

We all had our pictures taken the other day, and you were so funny. The photographers were trying to get you to smile and you refused. They tried everything. They used muppets, toys, funny voices, and funny faces and the whole time you just looked as if to say, “lady, what the heck is wrong with you?” I asked them to let me try; I did the “I’m gonnnna getcha, getcha, getcha!” and you smiled so big. We are going to have some great pictures of you.

Now that the weather is warm, you are going outdoors more. Boy, are you fascinated by the outdoors! Indoors your attention span is only about fifteen minutes for any given activity. When you are outside, and are sitting on my lap on the patio, you want to look around at everything and take it all in. We can be out there for thirty minutes or more and you are so content just watching the trees sway in the wind and listening to the birds chirp.

You also like to watch our pugs, Petunia and TaterTot. It is hard to know for sure, but I would not be surprised if you grow up to love the great outdoors.

Well, it is now 3:35 a.m. and you still have that bottle in your mouth, and there you go again; farting up a storm. That’s my boy!

 

Love you kiddo –

Dad.



Who am I?

This is a loaded question…

 

I am a second generation American and a native expatriate. I am underpaid, under-educated and I have a difficult time comprehending why a decent paying job has eluded me for so many years.

I am an aspiring writer. I use several pseudonyms because I believe they give me an air of mystery. The more pseudonyms, the bigger the mystery.

I have yet to be published, but my hopes are high. I recently received an offer for my work to be published in a reputable publication entitled “Common Mistakes Aspiring Writers Make.” I am very excited.

In my spare time, I raise two little boys who are five and six years old. Michael and Robert have single-handedly contributed to my declining health. My doctors tell me I may recover when my children move out; even then it is questionable. Unfortunately, my doctors have also given me another 60 years to live, unless I get hit by a bus or run with scissors. The doctors have also done everything they could to make me more comfortable, and for that I am grateful.

I have received several awards. Unfortunately, Mother of the Year has eluded me. This may be the fault of my six-year-old, Michael. When he asked if he could drive my car because he was a big boy, I believed him. Had he stayed within the lines, we never would have been pulled over.

Then, Child Protective Services got involved for no apparent reason.

I am, however, a driven individual and I do not give up easily. Michael and I have discussed his mistake, and I am confident, this will be my year.



 

I am mom to two amazing boys (yes, I am biased) Michael, six and Robert, five.

I grew up with girls; 22 of them in my family; cousins, and sisters, but only two boys. I loved hanging out with my male cousins, even though I saw them twice in my entire life.

I liked spending time with boys. Not because I was boy crazy, but because I thought boys were cool. I was a tomboy; a tomboy who liked boys.

Boys were easier to deal with than girls my age. Girls wanted to come over and play with my things; I did not like that. Girls were gossipy, needy, and wanted things from me; things I did not like to share, like my time.

My time was precious; my time was dedicated to reading anything I could get my hands on, climbing trees, running through grain fields, climbing bales of hay, and getting dirty from sunrise to sundown.

I was a girl who liked to be alone; I liked to read and not be bothered. Frankly, I think I wanted to be a boy. I did not want to be a part of what represented girls.

Yuck!

I did not have the patience to deal with girls, their needs, and wants.

To me, boys were easy. Boys did not cry, did not have curfews; boys had no cares in the world. Boys could not get pregnant, boys did not get periods.

Even at a young age I knew I wanted my children to be boys. I had nothing against having a girl. I always thought it would be more fun to have boys, and this may sound odd, but I liked the idea of being the only girl in a houseful of boys.

My wish has come true. Now that I have two sons, I am not sure I should have wished for what I wanted and clearly got.

It is somewhat of a miracle I could even get pregnant. At the age of 29 I was blessed with a very rare form of cancer called Gestational Trophoblastic Neoplasia. Simplistically, it is a malignant form of a molar pregnancy. That is a horrifying story in itself. After chemotherapy that was supposed to leave me sterile, I gave birth to my first hooligan… I mean son, Michael.



 

My husband and I were like all newly married couples and wanted the perfect two children; a boy and a girl, and we wanted them to be as close in age as possible, short of having twins.

Isn’t this everyone’s dream? I mean, seriously, have two at once, get it over with, be miserable raising them until they move out of the house, and move on. All this, assuming they haven’t killed you yet, or caused you to drive off a cliff.

As soon as I could, after Michael popped out, I got pregnant again. Exactly 12 months and 25 days later, Robert arrived. I was thrilled; secretly I wanted another boy.

After Robert, I got “fixed.” No more children for me; in part because our wish of two children had come true. In part because my chances of getting the same form of rare cancer, from a pregnancy, is about 80%. I knew I would never make it through chemotherapy again.

Should I really want another child, there is adoption, surrogates, and gestational carriers. I am however, fairly certain that at thirty-eight years old, my patience has given up, taken a vacation, and there is a very good chance it is not coming back. I don’t even have patience for a gold fish, even though I made the mistake of getting one for my son.

It is fascinating when I visit a doctor’s office; they still make me pee in a cup to test for pregnancy. I always tell them the only way I possibly could be pregnant is through Immaculate Conception but they don’t believe me.

Doctors… such an untrusting bunch.

Perhaps they have a good reason for doing it, but I do not like to have my honesty questioned. Maybe I am a little sensitive about it. All right, I am a lot sensitive about it. Fanatically so. I don’t mind being accused of lying if I have done it. If I have not, however, and I am accused of it, watch out!



 

My greatest fear had always been autism. I was terrified that one or both of my children would be autistic. This fear was not for me but for the children. I loathed the idea of having my child suffer in any way; or having been the cause of it.

My deepest fear has been realized. Michael and Robert were born with autism.

Yes, it is possible to be born autistic.

Autism refers to a wide range of developmental disorders that affect the brain. Speech, socialization, and behavior are affected. Some children with autism are extremely smart or high functioning, while others have low IQs.

Michael and Robert are high functioning; the exception is that Robert refuses to speak. He is an odd child, what can I say.

Robert was diagnosed with autism and sensory processing disorders at the age of two at the Children’s Hospital in Denver, Colorado.

Robert’s developmental pediatrician diagnosed Robert with other delays when he was about one year old.

Robert has had a rough road; at least I believe he has. I say this even though I don’t really know how he feels. Robert has always been and is always happy.

I remember an evaluator asking us, “What is Robert like when he is angry?” My husband and I looked at one another, confused, and laughed, “Robert does not get angry. We don’t know.”

Instead of recommending some sort of a treatment plan for our now special-needs child, the developmental pediatrician decided to give us a lesson in parental morality. According to Dr. Campbell, no matter what, Robert was our “son and you should love him unconditionally. He might not be like typical children; all he needs is to be loved by his parents.”

Whoa! I am so glad I’ve been told to love my child unconditionally. As soon as I left your office, I was going to abandon him the parking lot. And if that didn’t work, I was going to beat him into good health.

By the way, have you ever been punched in the face?

Thanks for parenting lesson doc. Did I just get charged for it?

Imbecile.

I know… I am not very nice. This is what I thought; not what I said. My husband’s thoughts of the “expert’s” advice were more diplomatic. He is always more diplomatic than I.



 

When our children’s diagnosis began to pour in I was terrified. More so because we were given no options; no treatment plans were recommended. We were told “here’s what’s wrong with your kid, go home and love him.”

What?

No. This is unacceptable.

We were not about to stick our heads in the sand and pretend our child was all right. We were not about to ignore this. From the moment we discovered something was wrong we were prepared to do anything and everything in our power to help our son. If that meant lifelong therapy, that is what we would do.

Children’s brains can form new connections to compensate for deficiencies. Every single available therapy became, and still is, the answer to ensure our children will live full, independent lives.



 

Robert began therapy at six months old becasue he was also born with torticollis.

Torticollis is a condition in which the neck is persistently turned to the side and cannot be moved. Robert’s neck was persistently turned to the left. Robert has overcome the torticollis with physical therapy.

Initially we believed the torticollis was his only condition in need of treatment; we were wrong.

At one year old, Robert was diagnosed with developmental delays and hypotonia, which is low muscle tone. To correct his delays, Robert began occupational therapy and physical therapy a few days after we received the diagnosis. Eventually, Applied Behavioral Therapy (ABA) was added at the age of two, after his diagnosis of autism and sensory processing disorder, along with speech therapy.

Robert’s fine and gross motor skills also developed late. This affected his ability to chew food. A grain of rice would make him vomit. It wasn’t until he was two years old that the feeding therapist informed us that Robert’s tonsils were very large. According to her, this may have been the cause of his feeding issues. This explanation did not seem plausible but we were desperate. We quickly made an appointment with an ENT, which advised us that, according to the Tonsillar Hypertrophy Grading Scale, Robert’s tonsils were a 4+ (tonsils occupy 75% or more of the lateral dimension of the oropharynx).

This made me a livid.

For two years we visited our pediatrician regularly. Every visit the pediatrician would check Robert’s throat. Not one-time did he say something about enlarged tonsils. This feeding issue could have been avoided or taken care of sooner.

We quickly scheduled a tonsillectomy. Unfortunately, this did not resolve Robert’s feeding problem. Because his chewing instinct had never developed, now Robert had to be taught how to chew, which was a very difficult thing to do. We spent months going to feeding therapy at the local feeding clinic, and it had ultimately no effect. My frustration level was through the roof. Not at my son, but the so-called feeding therapists.

 

Robert was taught to chew by a lovely and incredible BCBA therapist at autism school, Ryan. She literally took his jaw in her hand, and moved it up and down. After a few tries, Robert became a pro. This seems insignificant to others, but seeing Robert bite and chew a slice of apple is incredible to us.

 



 

I have a difficult time letting things go; yes I hold grudges. Very adult of me… I know.

I am still a little angry over Robert’s feeding problems. I am not angry with my son. He could not tell us what hurt. I am angry because Robert did not have to suffer two years of his life, when this could have been resolved early.

The past five years our lives have constituted of school and therapy, which, believe it or not, is a good thing.

Michael is higher functioning than Robert, we think. I say this because Robert, at five years old is developmentally delayed and barely speaks. Academically, however, he tested at kindergarten level when he was three years old. Please don’t ask how that is possible. I often wonder myself.

Michael did not speak until he was a little over two years old. We quickly took him to speech therapy. I am now beginning to wonder if we did not make a mistake. He blathers non-stop; literally.

 

 



 

During my pregnancies, I began a journal for each child. I wanted to memorialize the things they did, the things they said, and their milestones. At the time I thought, I was crazy for even thinking it, but now I am glad I did it.

Little by little, we began writing in the journals, hoping that one day the boys would enjoy reading about their childhood adventures, as much as we enjoyed writing about them.

Anyone who had a story to tell, or observed unconscionable, immature, juvenile, or funny acts of innocent or not so innocent, accomplishments was welcome to write about them. We have parents, grandparents, and aunts writing in the journals. Everyone’s perspective is recorded and nothing is made up. The stories are funny, sad, precious, and silly. Well… to us they are.

I don’t know if the things my children do or say are “normal.” I cannot compare them to anyone.

As a mom, I have a warped sense of humor. It certainly does not help that I married someone whose sense of humor is even more twisted than mine.

Reading my children’s journals, however, I wonder if a sense of humor is genetic. I certainly hope not, otherwise as parents, we are in a great deal of trouble.

 



 

Michael, or Bruisie, as we often lovingly call him, is now six years old. He is tall for his age. Everyone believes Michael is at least two years older than he looks. He has lovely, deep blue eyes and blond hair. As a biased individual, I think he is adorable.

What do I know; I am only his mother.

Michael knows it all and he will never miss an opportunity to tell you when you are wrong, which is always. The abundance of his material is memorable. Of course, it may only be memorable because I am his mother and truthfully, I cannot be impartial even if I tried.

Michael is sneaky, smart, adorable, spoiled, contentious, and manipulative.

Is manipulation a science, an art, or instinct? Is it taught or is it nature?

I always thought manipulation was learned. I was wrong, clearly. Teenagers are manipulative but I never imagined a toddler would know how to manipulate. I don’t know if Michael is aware of his actions, other than he will do anything to get his way.

I appreciate the complexity of manipulation. Without it, Michael would not be who he is today.

Michael’s first act of contention came when he was about one year old. We just brought Robert home from the hospital. I was holding Robert while he was sucking on a bottle. Michael’s father held Michael up to Robert so he could get a good look at his new brother. We were hoping for something special. A look, a touch, a sense of a deeper meaning; a bond between two loved ones.

Nope!

Michael saw Robert’s bottle and immediately snatched it out of Robert’s mouth as if to say, “that’s mine.”

Let the sibling rivalry begin.



 

I made a promise to my husband that when our children became teenagers I would embarrass them on purpose. I will pull out the naked baby photos when the girlfriends show up.

You are probably thinking why would you want to make your child miserable?

It’s simple. Payback. Payback for all the speechless moments my children have caused their father and me. Payback for all the manipulations we have endured and will continue to endure.

All right, maybe, just maybe I am just trying to unsuccessfully justify my desire to embarrass my child. This is where my unusual sense of humor comes in.

I am glad; however, for the speechless moments and the manipulations. For they began early and are priceless. I have a feeling, however, that while I may say this is cute now, I will be in hell when my children become six foot tall teenagers.



 

Hi Bruisie,

 

Tomorrow is your big birthday! You mom and grandmother have put a lot of time and energy into putting together a party for you. Frankly, I do not know why. I mean hey, I love you and all, but you could have been raised by wolves for the first four years of your life, and you would never remember a bit of it.

But women, as a species, are strange this way. They have no sense of what is practical and their version of reality is, shall we say, a bit “different” than what you and I might perceive.

This is not to say that men, by virtue of their grasp of reality, practicality, and logic are therefore superior. Well, yes it is, but ignore that for a moment.

For, were it without women, the world would be a very bland and harsh place. Women have a knack for finding and creating beauty. Many, but definitely not most, are quite beautiful in their own right.

Women have the ability to create a sense of warmth, of belonging. Women, largely, are singularly responsible for making a house feel like a home. Ahh, but the frustrations they cause!

 

“Blessed are ye, who have no sisters.

For ye shall inherit peace.”

Jesus.

 

Well, I think Jesus said something like that, I don’t really know.

Anyway, there is lots that could be said about women. Many lessons to be learned.

 

Love ya, you little brat –

Dad.



 

Have you ever been asked so many questions that you ran out of answers?

I have. Usually by the time I finish my answer, Michael’s next sentence is completely out of his mouth.

I always have to know the correct answer. I am not allowed to say, “I don’t know.” Michael promptly will inform me that I “have to know.” How Michael knows I do not give him the correct answer every time, is a mystery to me.

I did ask Michael one time, “Why do I have to know?”

“You have to know because you are big.”

Kid, if you only knew your mother. It is a miracle I know what galaxy I live in.

Most of the time Michael’s questions feel like an inquisition. I am almost certain that I can withstand the worst law enforcement interrogator; at least with them I can invoke my right to remain silent.

One day, when Michael was about three, he was asking questions faster than I could answer them.

Exasperated I finally said, “Michael, you’re killing your mother!”

He quickly responds, “No, you’re killing YOUR mother.”

I tried very hard not to laugh; really, I tried. I quickly walked away and I just burst out laughing. I knew at that moment, I had lost not only the battle, but also the war. I looked at Michael hoping against hope that he had not noticed my amusement.

On his face was this small smile all to himself as if to say, “I got her.” He had.

 



 

I read that a child’s sense of humor needs to be developed. This came as a surprise to me. I assumed one was born with a sense of humor. I have always goofed around with my children. I suppose I should thank my father for my sense of humor.

Most of my younger years were spent laughing. It was not until later that my life became miserable.

I say this last part a little sarcastically.

I do not consider myself particularly funny, but I do seem to have somewhat of a natural knack of making people laugh even when I do not try. Everyone is either laughing with me, or at me. Either one does not really bother me.

Being receptive to Michael’s silliness has clearly helped his sense of humor.

One day, as I was putting on deodorant, Michael looks up at me and asks “Mama, whatcha doing?”

“I am putting on deodorant. I don’t want to get stinky armpits.”

I turn around to ask him, “Do you have armpit stink?”

Michael thinks about it for a second, “I have butt stink.”

Now what do I say to that? After all, it is true. I was impressed with his honesty.

God, please protect my sanity through Michael’s teenage years.

 



 

As parents we learned early on that we may be in trouble.

One day, when Michael was about three years old, his dad took him to the mall to play on the playground.

After playing vigorously Michael became whiny. He was clearly tired. His dad decides to bring him home.

“I wanna go play,” whines Michael.

“We are going home Michael.”

“But I wanna go play.”

“Michael, we are going home. Stop whining.”

“I wanna go play,” whines Michael again.

His father is exasperated, “Michael, if you say ‘I wanna go play’ one more time, I’m going to spank you.”

Michael thinks about this for a second then says, “I wanna go THAT way,” pointing towards the playground.

Damn, he found a loophole.

The lawyer in his father appreciated this.

 



 

I believe that sometimes I have a 16-year-old living in a six year old’s body. I have been told emphatically “don’t talk to me” or “don’t look at me” if Michael gets upset.

When Michael was about three, I wanted to teach him to clean up after himself. The living room was full of toys.

“Michael, pick up your toys and put them in the toy box please,” I say.

“But mom, this is too hard,” whines Michael, dragging his feet, arms dangling at his sides dramaticaly.

“Well honey, move faster and use both hands.”

Michael was picking up one toy at a time, walking back and forth from one end of the room to another.

“But mom, this is too hard. I am going to die!” he says dramatically.

Really? Has this excuse worked on any parent? Ever???

I don’t know where he learns these things. We certainly don’t talk this way at home. He is adorable when he says them, though, or so the mother in me believes. It certainly does not help that I want to laugh at most things he says. I know he learns some things in school, and this is why sometimes I would rather keep him at home in a bubble.

While Michael can be onerous, he can also be the sweetest boy I have ever known.

One morning I was very tired. I am not a mom who sleeps much. I was sitting in my office chair with my eyes closed and my hands in my lap. I did not hear Michael come into the room. Sometimes he is very stealthy.

Michael comes up to me, on his knees, and kisses my hand. I open my eyes, startled and I see his sweet, smiling face, looking up at me. This is the boy I want around. This is the boy I pray I will not lose to adolescence.

 

Then I get this version of Michael –

 

One day, his grandmother asks him to go downstairs. He refuses.

Michael believes that if he doesn’t acknowledge you, you did not say anything; you do not exist.

Hah! I got to give him points for trying, however.

I was hoping I would hear a “no thank you grandma” as he has been taught to say. Instead, I hear, “I can’t go downstairs grandma, I have a headache.”

And the Oscar goes to…

No, he did not learn this from his mother. To all men out there who believe this was a phrase invented by a woman… how wrong you are.

 



 

I struggle as a parent. I am not always aware of when or if I am doing a good job. I certainly try to teach my children to be thoughtful, sweet, and polite. I have no one to compare myself to other than so-called perfect parents in books or on television.

Because Michael is my first born, I have no one to compare him to, either. Once in a while though, I get a glimpse of my progress as a parent.

One day, Michael comes up to me unexpectedly, leans against me, and says, “You’re beautiful.” That melted my heart and soul. I picked him up, hugged him tightly, and kissed him.

Other times, the evidence that I am still not ready for parenthood, nor have I yet learned to be one, shows clearly.

I hoped my immaturity would have vanished by the time I turned thirty-eight. It has not.

I made the mistake of giving Michael some Robin’s Eggs candy when he was about three years old.

“Mama, hatch the egg,” he says handing me a Robin’s Egg.

That left me speechless. I had been asked to do many things in my lifetime. Hatching an egg has never been one of them.

“It’s candy,” I said laughing handing it back to him.

Michael thought I was refusing to use my hatching abilities because again he said, more emphatically this time “Mama you hatch it.”

I have done many things for my children; I was not about to attempt to hatch an egg.

Not even a chocolate egg.

Not even for fun.

Though, if I thought I could have been successful, I could have taken out a full page in Ripley’s.Just imagine the press I would get.

“Mama, hatch it!” he insists.

“You sit on it and hatch it,” I say laughing.

I should not have been surprised; Michael put the Robin’s Egg candy on the floor and promptly sat on it. I decided to be a good parent and not tell him he could not hatch an egg, either.

 



 

A lesson I learned the hard way: pay attention to what you say around children, especially your own.

Let’s be honest – who cares if other people’s children learn bad habits from me. Let their parents fix it.

I know. I am a caring individual.

Most of the time it only seems like Michael is not listening. Not only is he listening to my every word, but he is also storing the information. This information will eventually come out, as I have discovered many a time.

When Michael was about three years old, I was picking up Robert and him from Hope Montessori Academy. The parking lot was full and I noticed that a vehicle had parked very close to the line, next to my car.

I walk into the school, pick up the boys and when I come out, I see that the original vehicle left, but another one had taken its place. Once again, it was parked very close to my vehicle.

As I opened the door to put Robert in his car seat, I say under my breath, “What is wrong with people” referring to the vehicle that was impeding me from fully opening the door.

Not missing a beat, Michael answers, “They’re stupid.”

In the past, I clearly did not speak as quietly as I thought I did.

I turned around surprised, “What did you say?”

Michael smiles and says, “Some people are stupid.”

This definitely sounded like an expression his mother had uttered before. I just never realized I said it aloud while Michael was around.

Yes, I know, horrible habit. But maybe, I am only teaching him to speak his mind.

Even as I write this I know it is not true.

 



 

Perhaps I am wrong, but I am not a big fan of spanking. I was hit with a belt as a child. Even at my young age I did not understand the need for a parent to hit his child so hard that they leave marks. Short of torturing animals, no child could be so bad where such cruelty is necessary.

When Michael is whiny, I usually threaten him with a time-out. Most of the time, it seems to be effective.

Later in the day, after the “idiot” incident, Michael was fussy. I told him I was going to take him to his room and put him in time out if he did not stop whining.

I was informed very promptly “No, I will take you to my room and close the door.” If that were not enough, I was also informed that, “I will take you in time out in my room, and you’re not going to come out. I am going to be really upset.”

Heaven forbid; that certainly would make me behave.

Now, I know what you are thinking “If this was my child….”

Had I not had any children, I would have agreed. Do I encourage him by not promptly setting him straight? I know I am.

I choose to pick my battles. Michael’s sense of humor and smart-ass comments are battles I am prepared to take on. I also realize he is only three years old. He is only mimicking his brilliant parents. This is to be expected.

 



 

Some experts believe a newborn should not sleep through the night because they are not aware of when they are hungry. The parents should wake up the baby to feed him every four hours.

Ummm… yeah, right!

I am not an expert. I certainly do not have a medical degree and while my husband has a Juris Doctorate degree he is certainly no doctor, either. As a mother, what do I know? I will tell you this, however, babies are smart. They will always let you know when they are hungry.

Not only that, but also why should I make things harder on myself just because I became a parent! This is my maturity talking here.

Michael and Robert have slept in their own beds, in their own rooms from the time they were a few months old. My husband and I wanted them to learn to be independent and not rely on us all the time. We have had success with this because since their infancy, the boys have pretty much slept through the night.

Never once did they go hungry. Never once did they get dehydrated. Did they ever wake up crying? Of course, and I certainly obliged with the ever ready bottle or the ever present and ready breast.

When both boys begun holding their own bottles, we simply put a bottle in their crib at night. They would find it on their own and did not wake up crying.

A bottle at night? That would damage their teeth you’ll say.

Yes, I know… I am a bad mother. At least I was a rested mother. Why be forced to pull my hair out at night, when by default, as a woman, I do it from sunrise to sundown? A break from maternal hair pulling comes in handy once in a while.

Perhaps independence leads to manipulation. I also believe that maybe, just maybe, being manipulative is a genetic condition. Perchance, I can blame this on Michael’s father. After all, they do say “like father like son.”

 



 

Michael does not like to stay in his room at bedtime. From the time he could speak, when evening came, Michael would say “no bed.”

Being parents, we thought of a clever way around this, “No bed honey.” We would then take Michael upstairs, put him in his room and say, “You don’t have to go to bed, just stay in your room,” knowing that eventually he would go to sleep. The first two or three times this happened, Michael did not protest.

We marveled at our ingenuity.

We are so awesome!

How long do you think that lasted?

The next night, when it came time to go to bed we heard “No bed, no room.”

Uh-oh, he is on to us. Crap, what have we done?

 

 

 

At first, Michael’s requests before he went to bed began with a gentle and polite, “Mama, can I have my light on please?” even though there are lamps and night-lights in his room.

Reward good behavior, I thought, because he asked so nicely. I said, “Sure honey.”

Big mistake.Huge!

Michael’s innocent question, upgraded to “Mama, can I have my door open please?”

Those large, innocent, deep blue eyes got to me, “Of course you can have your door open, but you have to stay in bed, all right?”

“Yes mama.”

A few minutes later, a sweet voice says “Mama, can I play in my room?”

My general naïveté got in the way, “Yes. But you have to stay in your room, no coming out.”

“Yes mama.”

After about 20 minutes of this back and forth, I thought he finally understood. With a sigh of relief I get ready for bed myself. I am in my pajamas; I am relaxing for, oh, about five minutes when I hear my bedroom door open.

I say nothing as I put on my stern face, knowing Michael was walking into my room. I then see this blond head peak around the corner, a smile on his face, big blue puppy eyes looking at me and a gentle voice saying, “Mama, I love you.”

I have to stay strong, I think to myself, not changing my expression.

As I am tracking him with my eyes, Michael walks over and gives me a hug.

Now, as a mother, how can I possibly be upset with him? Not that I did not want to be upset, but Michael’s father and I made a promise. Whenever the boys say “I love you,” we will always respond in kind. Whenever the boys want a hug, we will never turn them down, no matter what.

Guess who figured it out and managed to turn it against us?

Michael got his hug and his I love you, after which I said “Go to bed please,” in my stern voice.

“Would you like to come with me?” he asks sweetly.

How can I say no?

Sucker!!!

“Of course I’ll come with you” I said as I walked him back.

Why do I feel as if I was a pawn in a game of chess and he just won this round?

 



 

Unfortunately, Michael has a habit of coming into my room around two a.m. and climbing into my bed. Sometimes I do not even hear him; I wake up and there he is, sprawled across the pillow.

One morning I am struggling to bring myself to wake up; you know that place where you are half-asleep, half awake?

I feel rusty, my bones are creaking, and my eyes are still closed. De-rusting takes a while sometimes.

Michael leans over and kisses me on the cheek, twice. He puts his face next to mine, on my pillow. Unfortunately, he has a cold, but I do not care. As manipulative as he is, he is also amazingly sweet. He then gets up, goes downstairs to his grandmother’s room.

Michael always gets out of bed about an hour before I do. I know, I am lazy.

What would I do if his grandmother weren’t there for him? I would have to actually be a full time mother.

Banish the thought.

Later that morning, I am driving Michael to preschool. I hear “Mama, why do I have to go to school?”

I have answered this question every day since Michael began preschool and I was tired of, once again, answering it. It is a battle to take Michael to school most days.

“Because if you go to school, you will not have to work at McDonald’s,” I said knowing he will not understand.

His next question gave me a clue about what he heard me say. Michael furrows his brows, “Why do I have to go to school AND work?”

Clearly Michael is not a multi-tasker.

I laughed, “No honey, you are going to school so you do not have to work when you grow up.”

Surprisingly that seemed to satisfy him.

Please, if you’re the CEO of Mcdonald’s, don’t write me to tell me how successful you are and what a great company you’re working for.

I believe you.



 

Often times Michael seems to be very inconsiderate of other people’s feelings. Michael can be self-centered and sometimes it can take him a long time to grasp the idea that other people have feelings. Perhaps this is where the autism comes in, or maybe he is just selfish as, hopefully, most kids his age.

It’s hard to tell.

Maybe I am just his mother who tries to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Michael’s selfishness is especially apparent when it concerns his little brother, Robert.

I read that being selfish is normal for a four-year-old.

Every day we try to teach Michael compassion. If his brother cries, we give Robert (also known as Spudnik or Spuddie) hugs. If Michael hurts his little brother, he has to say he is sorry and give Robert a hug and a kiss.

We also kiss boo-boos and hug our stuffed animals. We always say “thank you,” “please,” and we always, always give praises.

I still do not know if all these things are getting through to Michael. I have seen glimpses of understanding. This is especially apparent when I visit my physician.

 

One day, I needed some blood drawn and I decided to bring Michael with me so I can show him that it is not a big deal.

Michael is terrified of needles and screams if he even suspects he will get a shot.

As I sit in the chair to get my blood drawn Michael asks “Mama what are you doing?”

“I am going to get poked.” That is the magic word for shots.

Concerned he says, “Mama, you’re not going to cry.”

“No honey; mama is not going to cry,” I answer smiling, even though I am terrified of, and have panic attacks around needles.

Thank you cancer. Thank you chemo.

The nurse sticks the needle in my arm. It takes willpower to not freak out in my son’s presence.

I am watching Michael, smiling, to show him I was not hurt.

He looks at me and gently says, “I love you.”

I knew then, he understood compassion.



 

Children with autism have language difficulties that cause them to interpret what people say in a very literal way.

Michael has a difficult time understanding the difference between fact and fiction. This is especially evident when he watches his favorite movie, How to Train Your Dragon.

I often explain to him that dragons are not real. I have a difficult time explaining realism to my children. It is especially challenging to explain it to an autistic child. Michael’s understanding is “if it is on television, or in a picture book, it must be real.” Don’t I wish it too kid!

Interpreting language literally is evident when Michael comes up to me and very seriously says, “Mama I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking my love?” I ask.

“I was thinking airplanes, and helicopters, and dinosaurs.”

Well, all righty then.

Let’s be honest; as adults we rarely say what we truly think.

 



 

I spoil my children. I know it, others around me know it, and alarmingly, my children know it and take advantage of it. I could say I do not know why I do it, but if I think about it, I am certain the answer will punch me on the nose. I mostly spoil them because I love to see their eyes light up when they get a toy. I am also a softie. I know… bad justification, but as I said before, I am a big sucker.

Michael went through a cephalopod obsession, so I bought him a toy octopus while he was in school. He arrived home and saw the octopus as soon as he walked in the door; grabbed it and ran upstairs as fast as he could.

Knowing he is looking for his mother, his grandmother yells after him “Michael your mom is not home.”

“I know. I want to see if mama got me something else too” he responds out of breath, as he is running full speed up the stairs.

Oh, what a grateful child I have…

  



 

Michael loves to snuggle and sit in my lap. One day, as Michael was sitting in my lap, he says “Oh, that was a little fart.”

Surprised, I ask, “Did you just fart in my lap?”

“No, I farted in my butt.”

That, my friends is true. I never thought of it in this way.

I love his literal interpretations.

 

One morning I say to him, “I want to go downstairs to eat too.”

He thinks about this for a second then says, “Eat two what?”

I just laughed.

Again, he asks, “Mama, eat two what?”

“I do not want to eat two anything. I want to eat because I am also hungry.”

Michael does not like to let things go, “Then why did you say two?”

This is beginning to sound like an Abbott and Costello routine.

“I don’t know; I’m still sleepy.”

Satisfied child.

Whew!



 

Michael is very good at stating the obvious. Maybe it is the autism talking or maybe it is his small, young brain. Either way, whether I wanted to or not, I had to learn to live with it. In rare instances, I still find this phenomenon fascinating.

Michael has an epiphany, “Mama, my legs let me run.”

“They do?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes and my legs let me jump too.”

I was impressed, “Wow, that’s pretty amazing.”

 



 

I believe Michael sits on the toilet, just to avoid going to bed. Perhaps this is an innate talent; perhaps this explains why men spend hours in the bathroom. I choose to believe the latter.

Michael had been in the bathroom for about 10 minutes. It was time for bed. My motherly instincts were telling me that he was only sitting there to avoid bedtime.

I’m talented this way.

I am getting frustrated, “Michael finish pooping.”

“There’s no poop in my butt,” Michael responds, which clearly explains his obvious inability to poop.

“Then why are you sitting there? Get out.”

You must have known a toilet story was going to be in here somewhere.

 



 

As most mothers, I have had to develop eyes in the back of my head, and in rare instances, I can feel trouble brewing; but I have yet to become psychic.

The boys usually eat when they wake up from a nap, which is generally about four p.m.

I ask Michael, “Honey, do you want to eat something?”

“No, you have to wait until I am hungry. I am not hungry yet.”

I thought I heard an unspoken “dumb-ass” in there, but I chose to ignore it.

There is nothing like a dinner story, right after a pooping story.

 

 

 

 



 

When Michael turned four, he learned the art of negotiation. Maybe negotiating is also a genetic condition. Notice how I blame just about everything on genes? There is a reason for that. It relieves me of any responsibility for my children’s unruly behaviors. However, I will be the first one to take the tiniest credit for any good behaviors they exhibit.

I learned that no matter what I say, it will be challenged and eventually negotiated down to a compromise on both sides. This is an exhausting process.

You are probably thinking “why put up with it?” Why indeed.

I do not have a legitimately good answer to that. Maybe I don’t want to be a hard-ass. Maybe I am a sucker. Maybe those big, deep blue eyes will be my downfall as a parent.

God, I pray not.

Michael and I made a deal one evening. He would watch dragons after which he would go to bed. By dragons, I mean the movie How to Train Your Dragon.

The movie is finally over when Michael comes to me and says “But mom I want to see it one more time.”

“No, I am sorry. Dragons are over and you have to go to bed.”

Here comes the ingenuity. It may have been a lie; I have not yet decided how to label it, “But mom, my dad says I need to watch it two times.”

Has this really worked with any parent? Ever?

Sometimes I question my sanity. Unfortunately, occasionally it replies, as it did in this instance.

I really am having this argument with myself: unless my son and my husband both practice telepathy, I know this did not happen; did it?

No, it did not.

Even assuming my child is the only being in the world to posses such a magnificent attribute, I know his father would not allow him to watch the same movie twice, in a row. This is pathetic but I decide that I need to win the argument and my sanity will just have to be satisfied with my decision.

Exasperated, I say, “Michael go to bed or I will put you in time out in your room.”

I am at once, threatened with “I’m gonna tell my dad you’re not being nice and he’s going to put you in my room and lock the door.”

Are you beginning to see a pattern here?

I am still undecided if I should be impressed that at four years old Michael has the mental ability to negotiate or if I should be extremely worried. When I was told I could be put in time out, for a split second, I thought it might not be a bad idea. It will be, without a doubt, the only way I may get some peace and quiet.

I decided to show Michael that a time out does not scare me, “Then your papa will have to put me in time out when he gets home. Please go to bed.”

Michael grumbled as he went to his room.

Score: Mom 1 – Michael 14,737.5.

 



 

I read that autistic individuals are attracted to water. By now you have probably noticed that I read. A lot.

I believe my children are fish inside boys’ bodies. The greatest thing I can give them is allow them to play in water, be it a pool, bathtub, water table, sink, or even a puddle. They do not discriminate.

Michael was taking a bath. I usually let him play in there for a while.

While in the bath, he proudly shows me his hands and says “Look, I’m pruney.”

The pruning of his fingers is clearly a fascinating phenomenon to him. It also gave me a clue that he has been in the bath way too long, “It is time to come out Michael.”

“But mom, my dad says I can stay longer.”

Telepathy at work again. I really need to learn it myself. Just imagine the things I could accomplish!

 



 

Michael is beginning to have the mistaken impression that a woman’s role is to clean and to be quiet.

Men reading this, I am sure you are thinking, “Of course; and the problem with this is…?”

Very funny…

I certainly did not teach Michael this is a woman’s role, nor have I given him this impression. After all, he cleans his own messes, including his room. Yes, I do make him clean up, and he does it usually under the threat of losing his toys, but it works.

Michael asked for some chocolate milk and I made it for him. He takes the bottle, goes to sit on the sofa, and begins to shake it. As he is shaking the bottle, chocolate milk drops are flying everywhere. It is literally raining chocolate milk. I can feel the stains setting into my rug and my furniture.

Before I get a chance to say anything, knowing what my reaction was going to be, Michael looks at me and says gently, “But it’s okay mom.”

As I marvel at my maturity, I state the obvious “Bruisie, look at this mess!”

Michael responds, once again, “It’s okay.”

Clearly not knowing better than to get into an argument with my four-year-old, at the time, I respond, exasperated “It is not okay. Who is going to clean this?”

Michael looks at me with a gleam in his eyes and a devilish smile, “You.”

I know there should be some sort of a smart, ingenious, comeback from me to him. Perhaps there is some lesson Michael can learn from this. If no lesson is learned, then a punishment can be gained. Maybe I should act like an adult and drop it.

The only thing I can think of when it comes to the spilt milk, however, is ignore him and give him a paper towel to clean up. Lucky for me, he cleaned up, without protest, smiling the whole time.

This, among other things, proves I am not too great of a parent. I am clearly teaching Michael how to get away with perhaps important things.

Am I being detrimental to my own son?

I don’t know for certain, but I sometimes believe I am.

 



 

The autism school Michael attends, tells me to ignore his bad behavior; if his bad behavior is not acknowledged, then he will change it.

This goes against human natures. It goes against anything and everything we have been taught to do as parents. A child does something bad, you correct him or her.

It is difficult to ignore bad behavior. I try and fail every time.

After almost two years of autism school, I still do not believe this is an acceptable solution to bad behavior; I have been known to be wrong once or twice, however.

I take that back. As a woman, I am never wrong. I may be mistaken, but never wrong.

I tried to follow the autism school’s advice and ignore Michael’s bad behavior. Unfortunately, I believe this has unexpected results.

When a teacher asks Michael to do something, sometimes Michael ignores her. I knew this behavior was puzzling to the teacher, especially when I get a note one day that says that Michael was asked to read a sentence. He refused to read it by ignoring the teacher’s repeated requests, skipped the sentence and went on to read the next one.

The note did have an exasperated tone to it, which I found funny.

I wonder where he learned to ignore unwelcomed requests.

They say the younger generation is always smarter than the previous one.

No kidding! The proof lives in my house.

 



 

Nap time at our house has always been a point of contention. The number of excuses to avoid nap time are impressive and growing.

Around noon, one day, I say to Michael “After you eat, you go take a nap, okay?”

I sound as if I am asking for permission, but if I do not get an affirmative answer from Michael, he assumes I never asked the question. Therefore, he can then ignore the request.

“But mama” he looks at me, “the sun is up. We only sleep when the sun goes down.”

I am not yet sure if this was his way to manipulate, or negotiate with me. I have not tried to understand it.

Technically Michael is correct; once again, he managed to baffle me. Although Michael’s logic should no longer surprise me.



 

Michael loves to play in my bathroom sink. He especially likes to put toys in there; whether plush or not, he does not care.

“Mom, can I put this in the water?” he asks, showing me a cute, plush white mouse he loves.

“No, honey, it will get wet.”

No! Really? Talk about the obvious smacking me in the face.

“But mama, it wants to be wet,” says Michael, hoping to justify his need for a wet stuffed mouse.

“Michael, we only put plastic toys in the water.”

Michael thinks about this for about five seconds, looks at me and says, in the sweetest voice a child can make, “But mama, don’t be upset when I put this in the water.”

Translation: ‘mom, get a clue, I am doing this with or without your permission.’

This made me laugh. How can I possibly argue with the sweetness of a four-year-old? Even when it is clearly manipulation.

But, I am thinking maybe I can get something in return for this, “Okay, but first I want a hug and a kiss.”

It is the best I could on such short notice, all right?

I get my hug and my kiss and the mouse took a lovely cold bath. Eventually the mouse will dry.

 



 

I do not believe we are the only family with nap issues, but it sure feels like that sometimes. Then again, I cannot compare my children, or my experience as a parent to anyone else. I have no role models other than Dr. Google and I do not believe he is very reliable.

One day, at nap time, Michael comes into my room with a half eaten chocolate sucker, and says “Mama, I want to sleep in your room.”

Thinking I was being clever, I say “You can stay in mama’s room until you finish your chocolate sucker.”

I don’t know why I refer to myself in the third person when I speak to him.

Michael happily climbs into my bed, sucker in his hand.

Five to ten minutes go by when I remember that Michael has a chocolate sucker, but he has not yet taken another bite of it. Up until now, he was devouring it.

That’s odd.

The answer is obvious but I ask anyway, “Michael, why don’t you eat your sucker?”

He smiles and gives me a sneaky look but says nothing.

“Come on Michael, eat your sucker,” I say smiling, knowing full well how his mind works.

He looks at me, smiles again, and slowly and deliberately puts the sucker on the night stand.

I could actually see his brain working, ‘mom said I can stay until I finish my sucker; if I don’t finish it, it means I don’t have to go to bed.’

The best answer I could come up with was, “You’re sneaky.”

After about 20 minutes Michael finally went to bed.

 



 

Apparently women are not the only ones who experience frequent ailments.

One evening, Michael was told by his grandmother to go to bed. He promptly informed her that he cannot go to his room because he “will get dizzy.”

That is quite the phenomenon. I have never known going to bed could cause dizziness. Perhaps this is an excuse I should try too. It would be the only time during the day I could get some peace and quiet.

 



 

Michael is a smart ass. In the morning, like every morning, he takes off his diaper and sits on the potty. When he is done, he goes down three flights of stairs, to his grandmother’s room, naked, and says, “Grandma, I need a diaper.”

His grandmother asks, “Michael, where are your pants? I need your pants.” Michael ignores her.

“Michael, I need you to bring me your pants.”

Michael looks at her annoyed and says, “Grandma, say it nice. Say ‘Michael, bring your pants please.’”

His grandmother starts to laugh, “Michael, bring me your pants please.” Satisfied he goes upstairs and brings her his pants.

Whomever said parenthood was magical should be shot.

 

 

 

 

 



 

It is 10:46 p.m. when Michael comes to my room and says, “Mama I wanna sleep right there,” pointing to my bed.

“No Michael, you have to sleep in your bed,” I respond as I get up to walk him back to his room.

Michael puts up his hand, “Mama, stay right there, don’t take me to my room, stay right there.”

I feel proud.

He wants to go back to his room all on his own, “Okay, but you go to your room and close the door.”

Michael goes to my bedroom door, closes it, and walks back into my room, smiling.

“Michael, not MY door, YOUR door,” I say, a little impressed by his ingenuity. I try to not show it, however.

“Okay mom, but when I close my door, I come sleep in your bed,” he says, as he runs out the door. He then closes the door to his bedroom and runs back into my room. He jumps on my bed, and puts his head on my pillow.

I love my son, I love my son, I love my s…

It would have never occurred to me to do this as an adult, let alone as a kid.

 



 

On evening, after putting him to bed, Michael walks into my room. I hear his opening my door and before I even saw him, I said “Michael, I am getting angry.”

He comes around the corner and says, “But mama, I have to turn off your light so you can sleep too.”

“Okay, but afterwards you go to your room and sleep in your bed.”

Michael turns off my light.

“Okay Michael, now you have to go to your room, close your door, and sleep in your bed.”

I know. My responses are specific but they have to be just so, otherwise he finds small loopholes.

Man, he would make a great lawyer. Probably better than his father.

Michael quickly walks out of my room. It is very quiet.

I don’t trust him. I get up to check on him only to find his door closed, and Michael in his room. I was shocked, and proud. Somehow, I still felt manipulated.

 

 



 

Michael wanted to watch Talking Words by LeapFrog, “Grandma, I want to see the frog letters.”

Grandma answers, “Okay,” and promptly puts on the DVD.

One of the movie previews on the DVD is for The Polar Express movie. Michael loves trains, “Grandma, look… a train.”

Because we have The Polar Express movie, his grandmother asks, “Do you want to see it?”

Michael gives grandma an enthusiastic “Yes.”

Any idea where this is going?

Probably not.

The Polar Express DVD is in and Michael is watching it. When the movie is over, Michael says, “Grandma, I wanna see the frog letters.”

Grandma is surprised, “But Michael, you said you wanted to see the train!”

Michael calmly responds, “Grandma, I did not want to see the train, I wanted to see Frog Letters.”

After going back and forth a few times, Michael won. Technically he did not express the desire to see The Polar Express. Grandma offered and he simply took.



 

Michael was a dragon one night. He was crawling on the floor, growling, pretending to be a dragon.

I needed to change him, so I said, “Michael, your diaper is full, go take it off.”

“Mama, I can’t be a naked dragon. I can only be a naked boy.”

My apologies oh fierce dragon!!!

“Can you stop being a dragon so I can change you?”

A few growls later, he became a boy again.

 



 

One evening I was lying down next to Michael at bedtime. We were talking and I asked him, “Michael, do you like girls?”

He just smiled.

I asked, “Michael, when you grow up, are you going to chase girls?”

I was expecting a simple yes, or even a no. This is certainly not what I got.

“I wanna chase girls when they’re naked.”

Whaaaaaaaaaaat??? Who are you, with whom have you been talking, and what have you been watching?

 



 

Sometimes Michael has a difficult time getting out his words. It is probably because he began speaking late.

Perhaps there are so many things floating around in his brain that they do not always come out.

Who knows!

Michael comes up to me, “I want… I want… I want…”

I can see he is struggling, but I am quiet. I am waiting for him to finish. If I interrupt, he begins all over and this is a long process.

The words are still not coming, “… I want…”

I give in and interrupt, “What do you want honey?”

He smiles, “I want YOU!”

Awww!

 



 

One day I was resting on Michael’s bed. He loves to follow me everywhere so this time I decided it was my turn to follow him.

I wanted to have a serious discussion with him about girls. Yes, I know he’s young, but it is never too early to start. I think…

I say to Michael, “Michael, I want to talk to you about girls.”

He immediately responds, “Naked ones?”

Like father like son.

Clearly, I can’t have serious discussion about girls.

Then again, do I truly want to?

 



 

Sometimes when Michael runs, he coughs uncontrollably. At first we believed he had exercise induced asthma.

After many trips to the children’s hospital and pulmonologists, thankfully he does not. Because his immune system is deficient, his body has a difficult time fighting off viruses.

We have been teaching Michael to cover his mouth when he coughs.

One day he was running and coughing. After many warnings to stop, I was frustrated, “Michael see? You are coughing now.”

Furrowing his brows, Michael responds with, “Mama, I can’t see my cough. I can’t see my mouth when I’m coughing.”

Brilliant mom, just brilliant.

 

 

 

As I have said before, Michael loves to play in the water. One day he comes to me and asks, “Mama, can I play in the water?”

“Sure honey, you can play in the water.”

Talk about wasting water. If my water company only knew; thank goodness they can’t restrict showers and dishwashing.

I go into the bathroom, plug the sink, and fill it up for him.

After playing in the water for a little while Michael comes to me and says, “Mama, can I have a parachute?”

He means Kleenex.

Don’t ask how we got from Kleenex to parachute. It can only happen in kid land.

“Sure honey, you can have a parachute.”

Michael has a difficult time understanding simple “yes” and “no” answers to his questions. I usually have to include his question into my answers; otherwise he will repeat the same question incessantly.

This is called echolalia, which is repetition of another person’s spoken words as a symptom of his autism.

After a few minutes, Michael comes back, “Mama, can I have more parachutes?”

I should hesitate, but I don’t, “Sure honey, you can have more parachutes.”

He grabs the whole box of Kleenex and runs to the bathroom. I really should not allow him to run off with the whole box, but hell, it’s only Kleenex.

Being a mom with eyes in the back of my head and the ability to see through walls, I know what he is doing. He is filling the sink with parachutes.

A few minutes later, “Mama, come see all the parachutes.”

Knowing already what I am going to find in the bathroom I respond, “No honey, that’s okay.”

He insists, “Mama, come see.”

“Michael, if I come see, I will take all the parachutes out of the water and put them in the trash.”

Michael looks at me, puts up his hand and quickly says, “Mama stay right there!”

I stayed.

I took the “parachutes” out of the sink the next day. They had absorbed all the water. Thank goodness I did not have to call a plumber. 

 



 

One day Michael and I were walking through the mall. Michael was walking with his head down, looking at the floor. He almost bumped into someone.

“Michael, watch where you’re going.”

As I say this to Michael, I am thinking, “Didn’t you see the kid asshole?” to the guy that did not move out of the way when he saw my dumbbell looking at the floor.

Maybe I should not have thought it, but I did. I am a mom; I think these things. Plus, I tend to believe adults have more brains than children. Clearly not, as I am a prime example of it.

No response from Michael.

Again, “Michael look up!”

Michael lifts his head and looks straight up, at the ceiling. I realize Michael never heard me the first time.

Frustrated, he says grumpily as he is walking looking up at the ceiling, “Mama, I can’t walk like this!”

I laugh.

Not exactly what I had in mind, but how do I explain this to a grumpy four-year-old?

“Honey, you have to look forward so you don’t bump into people.”

“Leave me alone,” Michael responds grumpily.

 



 

In my early twenties, I was blessed with migraines. I go through months of no migraines, and when they hit, I get them often. One day as I was battling a rather painful migraine, Michael was loud and silly.

It’s like he’s a kid or something…

Breathing hurt, so I could barely stand the noise. I quietly ask, “Michael, can you be quiet please, mama’s head hurts.”

Big blue eyes gaze at me with a concerned looked, “I’m so sorry your head hurts.”

I am touched, “That’s okay honey, it’s not your fault that mama’s head hurts.”

“It’s not your fault either,” says Michael gently.

That’s my son!

  



 

Before Michael began kindergarten, I allowed him to watch television before going to bed.

Bad, bad mother.

But at least he watches documentaries – this is my justification and I am sticking to it.

As I meantioned before, when we want Michael to do something or follow rules, we have to ask him to repeat what it is we are asking him to do. I have found this is the only way Michael pays attention to what we are saying.

In his mind, if he does not acknowledge our request, he does not have to do it.

Michael was watching a movie and eating cereal before going to bed.

It was getting a little late, “Michael when the movie is over you go to bed right?”

I am expecting an immediate yes but I get no answer. I am watching Michael and I literally can see his little mind working.

I try again, “Michael say yes.”

Exasperated he responds with, “Honey, I’m eating.”

Now you would think that it is easier to say the simple word, “yes”, than it is to say three; but that’s just me.

“Michael, after the movie, you to go bed. Say yes or go to bed now.”

Again, no answer.

I take him by the hand and walk him towards the stairs.

Surprisingly he is not fighting me. In fact, Michael is very calm and sweet when he says, “But honey, I am eating.”

Frustrated I try one last time, “Michael say ‘when the movie is over I am going to bed.’”

Yes, I know I’ve already lost the damn battle.

Again.

A little voice says, “When the movie is over, I go to bed….” Smaller voice “… tomorrow.”

Arrghhh!!!!

This is what I’m thinking, not saying, while trying not to laugh out.

Do you suppose there is such a thing as “lawyer genes?”

 



 

I am biased, as I said before.

I love to tease Michael about girls, even though he is so young. I like to tease him because he is all boy.

Not that I have anything against not being “all boy”.

I like to do it because he loves all girls, small, tall, young, or old; he does not discriminate. He especially has a thing for blondes and redheads.

“Michael, are girls going to call you on the telephone when you are big?”

No hesitation, “Yes.”

“Will you ask them to stop calling you?”

I’m thinking he will say yes, instead I get an honest, “No.”

If you don’t want to know the answer…

I am going to be in hell when he grows up.

 



 

One day, Michael discovered his bedroom window opens. He found that fascinating.

I’m thinking, hell, it’s just a window.

Around eight p.m. Michael says, “Mama, I want the window open.”

I try to reason with him, “No. If I open the window, you will not sleep.”

Way to go mom.

Has reasoning ever worked with a child?

Michael thinks about this for a second, then in his sweetest voice he says, “But mama, if you love me you will open the window.”

How can I possibly argue with that? I thought about giving in for a split second, but I came back to my senses quickly.

Stay strong.

He will never go to bed if I open the window.

  



 

I hope Michael does not become a “mama’s boy.” I want him to be independent and not rely on me so much for his entertainment.

I have nightmares of his meeting a girl and depending on my opinion about whether to marry her or not, where to go to dinner, or when and how to raise his children.

I do not want this much responsibility.

 



 

Why is bedtime hell?

One evening, Michael limped into my room. I could tell something was off by the look on his face. The limp was not very convincing.

“Mama, my leg hurts.”

“I am sorry honey,” I play along, “do you want mama to rub your leg?” I ask, knowing I would have to do it.

It is not a chore.

“Yes,” he responds.

Michael lies down next to me and I begin to rub his leg. As I am doing this, I see a sneaky smile on his face.

“Michael, did you lie to me about your leg hurting?”

“No,” he says unconvincingly, in a small voice.

“Michael was that a lie?”

He smiles, “It wasn’t a lie. It was a good lie.”

I know I should get upset about his come backs, but I am more impressed than I am upset. Maybe this is wrong, but at least I am honest.

Maybe one day I will regret this, but for now, I am going to relish it. Should this become a problem when he is a teenager, I will simply blame his father. After all, he is the lawyer in the family. This alone should make him responsible for Michael’s behavior.

 



 

I am not a fan of our basement. It is dark, cold, and uninviting but the boys like playing down there sometimes.

I was running in and out of the basement for some reason one day. The boys are following me.

I was rushing back upstairs, trying to avoid running over the boys, when I accidentally kicked the leg of the table. My toe is killing me. I want to curse but I can’t. Michael is standing right there, watching me. I can barely breathe.

In 2009 and again in 2011 some scientists conducted studies that showed cursing relieves pain. Whether true or not, all I know is that cursing, in this instance, will make me feel better.

To add insult to injury, Michael says, “Mama, watch where you’re going.”

It is not easy to be in pain and wanting to laugh at the same time while trying not to curse aloud.

For some reason, an “Argh!” scream, does not seem to relieve as much pain as a loud, forceful, “Fuck. Me!!!” At least this has been my experience; but all of us have something to give up when we have children.

My sacrifice has been giving up cursing, which would make a sailor blush. I do not say this proudly…

Well, yes I am – maturity is subjective.

Hard to believe that I was the one who became a bad influence on my husband. Until he met me, he was a good boy. I guess he did not begin his rebelling ways until his late twenties. That seems so wrong.

Mind you, I did not give up all my cursing; only the worst of the worst. I am, however, working on it; so give me a break.



 

Michael loves ice cream shakes. I made the mistake of getting him one, one day, and his love affair with them began with his first sip.

One day, I stop at a drive-thru to get some sweet potato fries and get Michael a chocolate shake.

After I pick up my order, I drive off, and stop to pick up the mail. As I am leaving the parking lot after picking up the mail, I back up the truck.

I am eating a fry with one hand, and attempting to drive with the other.

I put the car in drive and push on the gas. The car does not move, but makes a very loud “vroom” sound. I realized the car was, in fact, in neutral.

Michael asks, “Mama, what is that noise?”

“Oh, mama can’t drive sometimes,” I respond honestly.

“Well, put the French fry down and use both hands.”

My conscience… sitting in the back seat.

 



 

Michael was being naughty one evening and I was tired of it. Frankly, I was just about to blow.

He was upset with me for not giving in to his demands when he said, “Mom, I’m sick of you.” Immediately after he stuns me with another demand, in the same tone of voice, “Can I have chocolate milk?”

In my brilliance, I respond, “No. If you are sick of me, you can get your own chocolate milk. I am not going to get it for you.”

Michael thinks about this for about a second, and then says in his sweetest voice, “If you give me chocolate milk, I won’t be sick of you anymore.”

At least he is trying to negotiate; or maybe he is learning to manipulate even better.

Thank you husband for your impeccable genes. This is my son.

 



 

Michael loves to talk to his toys. One day, as he was sitting on the sofa, he was talking to his sea shell.

He is a strange kid, what can I say.

It must have answered back because suddenly I hear him say, “You son of a shell!”

I am not sure if I should be proud that he used the phrase correctly, or if I should be worried. After all, he did not say “son of a bitch,” which is a phrase we do not use anyway.

My cursing contains much more colorful words, which mostly consist of the “F” word. I will worry when my children begin using that.

 



 

Michael has astounding epiphanies.

Maybe he is just honest.

One day, he comes to me and says, “Mama, I don’t want to grow big. I want to stay little.”

That is so sweet, thinks the mother in me.

Unfortunately, I have to tell him the truth, “I’m sorry honey, but everyone grows big.”

Michael thinks about this for a few seconds then asks, “Mama, will you miss the little Bruisie when I grow up?”

I am almost speechless, “Of course I will miss the little Bruisie. I will also love the big Bruisie as much as I love the little Bruisie.”

Michael gives me a contented smile.

Ahh… true love.

 



 

When Michael asks a question, he will not accept “I don’t know” for an answer. It is part of his autism, I am told.

Michael does not have the patience to wait for me to find the answer either. I have to answer immediately; can’t even think about the answer. He is extremely impatient. I have tried to teach him patience and so far I have been unsuccessful. After all, his mother is also impatient.

Hmmm…

Michael asked a question to which I made the mistake of responding with “I don’t know honey”.

Michael is frustrated, “But you have to know,” he sighs.

I try to explain, which is probably a mistake, “Honey, I’m big and old, I don’t know everything.”

After a second, Michael softens his voice, “Mommy, I changed your mind so you’re not old again.”

“Why thank you honey, you are amazing.”

“I know,” answers my humble son.

 



 

Michael loves factual things; science, anatomy, biology. He is fascinated by these things so much so that we watch open heart surgeries on YouTube.

After I put Michael to bed one night, he was going to the bathroom for the sixth or seventh time a 15-30 minutes span.

I finally asked, “Honey, how many times to you have to pee?”

Michael responds, “Mom… there’s still food going through my kidneys, turning the food to pee.”

How can I argue with this?

Did I just miss his going to medical school in the past year or so?

 



 

You know how they say every generation is smarter than the one before? I believe it.

I allowed Michael to watch the move Down Periscope one day. It was on television and he got excited when he saw the naval boats and the submarines.

“Mom, where’s the movie with the boat and the submarine?” asks Michael one day, referring to the movie.

It had been on our DVR, but I deleted it.

“It’s not on TV anymore honey.”

Without missing a beat, Michael asks, “Why don’t you just buy the DVD?”

‘What the hell is wrong with you was silent,’ but I know I heard it in his voice.

 

 



 

Maybe this is a kid thing, but Michael is fascinated by scissors. He went through a phase in which he cut everything in sight, his curtains, clothes, and even his beloved inflatable trampoline.

I have to hide my scissors, box cutters, staple removers, and even the stapler.

One day Michael wanted to use the scissors to cut up a box.

“I’m sorry honey, we don’t play with scissors.”

“But mom, I really want the scissors; please let me cut with the scissors,” Michael whines.

“Michael, I said no.”

Why can’t our children understand the word no and leave it at that?

“Mom, do you know what you’re doing? You’re killing your Bruisie.”

The little booger threw my words right back in my face.



 

Michel admires his father tremendously. He lives for his dad’s approval. He talks about being big like papa all the time.

“Honey, do you want to grow big like your papa?” I ask.

Michael thinks about this for a minute, “No, I want to stay little.”

I did not expect this answer. Surprising, because all kids want to grow up and be adults. I did, unfortunately.

“Mama, when I grow up, will you miss your little Bruisie?” asks Michael.

I am not surprised by the question. He has asked it before.

“Of course I will miss my little Bruisie; and I will love my big Bruisie too.”

He is deep in thought, and then asks “When I grow up, what will you call me?”

“I will call you Bruisie, because you will always be my Bruisie. Can I call you that?”

“Ok.”

I felt as if he only said that to please me, but I don’t care.

 

 



 

Michael’s father and I promised we will always try to give the boys truthful answers. We may have done this without realizing the repercussions.

Michael asks me one day, “Mom, how did I get in your tummy before I was born?”

I was not startled by the question, and I had, what I thought a good answer, “Well honey, mama has eggs and papas have seeds. The seed goes inside the egg, the egg hatches, and it makes a baby.”

I did not want to say sperm. I was not ready for my, then four-year-old, to know the term. Hell, I know it and do not want to think of it, let alone say it.

You may think I explained babies to him in a strange way, but it was the best I could do on such short notice.

Regardless, Michael was satisfied with my answer.

I was praying that he would not ask me HOW the seeds got into mama’s eggs.

 

Fast forward about a year…

 

Michael asks me out of the blue, “Mom, how do the seeds get into mama’s tummy to make a baby?”

My world begins to spin, my breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself having a stroke.

Arrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

There is no way in hell I am giving my now five-year-old a truthful answer to this question.

I don’t even remember my answer; but for once, changing the subject, BSing my way out of it, and not giving him a real answer actually worked.

Michael has not asked me the question again, but I dread the day because I know it is approaching fast. I just hope he will ask it when he is about 30 or so.

 



 

Michael’s grandmother has lived with us for about four years now. It is easier for her to speak Romanian. The boys understand Romanian but only speak a few words.

As I was driving, my mother and I were having a conversation in Romanian. The boys were in the back seat in their car seats.

Michael is frustrated, “talk English.”

I laugh because I could tell he held this in for a while until he finally blew.

“Why? Don’t you understand us?” I ask smiling, knowing Michael understands some Romanian.

Grumpily, Michael responds, “You gotta talk nice, not like an idiot.”

Who is this kid?

Do not think it… yes he gets it from his mother.

“Michael, you are rude. You have to be nice,” I say in my most motherly voice.

“But I don’t understand what you’re saying,” responds Michael grumpily.

“We are not talking about you honey, don’t worry,” I try to make him feel better.

Although I have to give it to him; Romanian is an ugly language.

If you are Romanian don’t write me to try to make me change my opinion on the subject.

 



 

I am a crafty person. I paint, write (or at least pretend to believe I can), and make jewelry. I keep all my crafts organized in large plastic containers in the closet. Because Michael likes to play with my crafts, I eventually put a lock on the closet door, so it can be opened only with a key.

Michael comes to me and says, “Mom, I’m gonna go in papa’s closet to look for a toy.”

This means he wants to go rummaging through my things.

“Michael, those are not toys, they are my things, do not go through them,” I say sternly. At least I try to sound this way.

He walks up to me purposefully and says, “Alright, I can go in papa’s closet and get a toy or a feather, or you can go in time out.”

I decide to be contrary and say, “I will go in time out.”

Becoming a mother does not automatically give one maturity. Alright?

Michael sighs, thinks about it for a split second and says, “Pick something else.”

Clearly I did not give him the answer he wanted, but I will give him points for creativity.

 



 

Michael is enrolled in a great kindergarten where he is taught through direct instruction, which is extremely effective. At five years old he can write cursive, do basic math, and is already reading on his own.

He has daily homework and we do it even though sometimes it is not easy for Michael.

To show Michael how impressed I am with his hard work, I say, “Michael I am so proud of you. Even though school is hard and you have a lot of work, you do it all and you do it well.”

“Yes, I know. But my teachers are proud of me too,” he responds happily and matter of fact.

I am surprised by this declaration. I did not think Michael cared, “They are? How do you know?”

“Because I am better than everyone else and because I do all my work.”

“How do you know you are better than everyone else?” I ask, surprised with his answer.

My humble son responds, “The teachers tell me that.”

I try to look at this in a positive way; Michael will never lack self-confidence.

 

 

 

Michael’s kindergarten is about 40 minutes away. We have to leave every morning at seven to make it to school by eight.

As I am driving with Michael, he is deep in thought and quiet.

Either that or he’s just tired.

We drive past a neighborhood in the making. Michael looks over, “Mom, look at all those houses. I’ve never seen so many.”

“I know honey. They are building a lot of homes there.”

I ask, “When you grow up, do you think that maybe you want to be a teacher, or maybe even build homes?” hoping to get him to think about what he might want to be when he grows up, for the millionth time.

“No, it’s hard work to build homes,” says Michael.

He is certainly not wrong in his assumption.

“You know, you can have other people build them for you. You don’t have to do the work,” I say. I am thinking he could become a developer, but I don’t tell him that.

“No, I’ll just stay at your house when I’m big.”

“You will?”

“Yes, I’ll just stay at your house when I’m big.”

“Why do you want to stay at my house?”

“I’ll stay with you until I die, because I’m your son.”

What do I say to that? Most kids want to grow up and leave their parents.

Apparently not mine.

If he is living in my basement at 30, and is a bum, I’m going to have a big problem with him.

Knowing how independent Michael is though, I am certain he will change his mind. At the same time, it is amazing that at his tender age of five, he finds home so comforting. We must be doing something right.

 



 

Michael’s love of science shines through just about every day, “Mom, why does our head make dreams?”

Crap! I have no clue.

“Oh… umm… uhhhh… that’s a very good question. I don’t really know honey.”

For once, Michael accepted this.

I think.

“Well… I think the food going to our brains make us dream.”

Why didn’t I think of that? Dumbass.

“You know, you are probably right. You know our dreams are not real, right?”

All right, so maybe I did not answer appropriately, now that I think back on it.

“Yes they are because they are inside our head,” responds Michael.

Well… duh!!!

 



 

I know better than to argue with my son. It is fun, however, to see how far I can push him. At the same time, I am aware I am teaching him to talk back.

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

Driving home from autism school, Michael talked and talked and talked some more. Every time I told him to be quiet, I got a “Mom, if you keep talking my head will explode.”

Funny, considering he does 99.999999% of the talking.

As we are driving home, cows are roaming the pasture on the left side of the highway.

I finally get fed up with all the blabbing and exasperated I say, “Michael, if you keep on talking, I am going to leave you in that field with all the cows.”

“That’s okay because I can run back to the car”

“Not if I drive off you won’t,” hoping to keep him quiet.

Hah!!!

“That’s okay, because I am faster than the car,” responds Michael quickly.

I soften up, “Are you a super boy?”

Emphatically he answers, “No. I am a super hero.”

How can I argue with this?

Too bad he does not possess the power to be quiet.

 



 

One morning, on our way to school we observed a couple of guys parasailing on the side of the road.

Yes, there is always stuff happening on the side of the road around where we live.

We live out in the boonies, with lots of open land.

Michael says, “Mom, I’d like to go up in a parachute.”

“You would? Aren’t you afraid to go up high?”

“No, because I’m a boy. Boys are not scared.”

I don’t know where he got this idea. We certainly have not told him that. I love his perception however.

“I would be scared to go,” I say.

“That’s okay mom. Papa and I can keep you safe.”

This is why I wanted to be a girl among boys.

It may seem odd that I call myself a girl at thirty-eight years old. This is definitely a sign of my maturity level. I do not consider myself responsible enough to be called a woman.

 

 



 

Michael was picking his nose. I did not say anything, but I was watching him through the rear view mirror, hoping he would notice me and stop on his own.

Nope.

He is still digging and I literally can see his finger reaching deeper, into the very depths of his brain.

I finally blow, “Michael did you find something interesting in there?”

He looks at me with a straight face, his finger still up his nose. Not missing a beat, he responds, “A toy,” pulls out his finger and starts laughing.

Ask a silly question…



 

Michael and I have many deep conversations on our way to school.

“Mom, are germs smaller than oxygen?”

Crap! I don’t know.

This is what I thought, not said.

“Mom?”

“I’m thinking honey. I don’t think I know.”

“Mom? Are germs smaller than oxygen?” Michael raises his voice in frustration.

“I’m sorry honey, I don’t know!”

Still thinking… This is like comparing camels to oranges.

“Mommm?”

I gave up, “Sure, oxygen is smaller than germs,” I say sighing.

To all science majors, please don’t send me any letters.

 

 

 

“Mom, why does a lotus berry paralyze us?” asks Michael.

I am dumbfounded, “Uhhh… what?”

“Why does a lotus berry paralyze us?” asks Michael again, frustrated this time.

What the hell is a lotus berry?

How does Michael know the word paralyze?

“I don’t know honey. I didn’t know they could.”

“Is it because they’re poisonous?”

“Uhhh… yeah… sure.”

Why didn’t I think of that? Who IS this kid?

 



 

In case I have not made it clear, Michael is very… let’s call him… high strung. He is a boy who loves to run, play, chase girls, ask a million questions at once, and recognize BS from a mile away.

His personality and outspokenness have caused him to get many notes from school for misbehavior.

Just about every day we get a note informing us that Michael is talking during teaching time, he is playing in his desk, or he is talking out of turn.

Every day, when I pick up Michael from school, I ask, “Michael, did you get any notes today?”

“No, I looked in my blue folder and I have no notes,” responds Michael happily. We have been collecting quite a few of these notes.

All right, a few more than just a few.

“I am so proud of you Michael for listening to your teachers today,” I say lovingly.

This feeling got crushed quickly…

“But Mom, can I get something special because I didn’t get any notes?”

“I’m sorry honey you don’t get things for doing the right thing.”

“But I want something,” whines Michael.

“Well, how about you get to watch a long movie this weekend,” I respond.

Michael does not watch television during the week any longer, only on the weekends.

“I want something specialer than that.” Specialer… a new word I haven’t heard before, but I will take it.

“How about we watch two movies this weekend?” I generously offer.

“No, I want something else.”

“How about I make you spaghetti and meatballs?”

Frustrated, followed by a big sigh, “Mommm!!!!”

“Sorry, those are your choices.”

Hey, that’s the best I can do kiddo. I forgot to print a brand new batch of dollar bills last night.

 



 

Michael has a new book about snakes, lizards, and frogs. We were reading it when we came across a frog where her babies live inside pouches on her back. Truly disgusting and freakishly weird.

Anyway, as I am reading to Michael, I say, “Eww… this frog has babies living inside her back. That’s disgusting.”

Michael is puzzled, “Why is that disgusting? They’re living in pouches.”

My response is still, “It just looks icky and disgusting. Eww!”

It really is disgustingly sick.

Michael says, “But Mom, I lived in your tummy. Was that disgusting?”

Uhhh…

This left me speechless. I certainly did not think of it in that sense, “Of course it wasn’t disgusting.”

Thank goodness he dropped the subject.

Nice going mom!

 



 

One day, after I picked up the boys from autism school, I decided to take the freeway. As we were driving over a fairly long bridge, there are deep bumps in the road. Every time we drove over one, we would sort of glide up and down; the boys would say “Whoa!!!”

After about four ‘whoas’ Michael says, “That makes my penis feel salty.”

I was sure I did not hear him right, “What did you say?”

Sure enough, he says, “That makes my penis feel salty.”

“What do you mean your penis feels salty? How do you know it feels salty?”

Michael is frustrated, “Mom, when we go over the bumps, we go fast and air goes inside my penis and it makes it feel salty?”

Whaaaaaat????

I refuse to think about this subject.



 

In case you have not yet realized it, Michael talks. A lot…

He talked to much one that I was tired. It is a miracle if he takes a breath between questions.

Before I went to bed, I asked him, “Honey, why do you talk so much?”

Without missing a beat, “Because I have a lot of questions.”

Ask a silly question…

 



 

Michael has been causing trouble at school during his afternoon class at recess. He is great in his morning class, and at autism school, following kindergarten. I do not understand why he is disruptive in the afternoon class.

I was so frustrated when I asked him, “Michael, why do you cause trouble in Mrs. Blondin’s class but not in Mrs. Seymour’s class?”

I did not expect his answer, “Because Mrs. Seymour and Mrs. Valenzuela are BEAUTIFUL.” Mrs. Valenzuela is the morning teacher’s assistant.

What’s that got to do with the price of camels?

I got him now, “Well honey… you don’t listen to me either. What does that mean?”

Michael thinks about this for a second, then digs his way out of it, “Mom, you are beautiful.”

That’s my boy… I think…

But I still don’t know how to make him behave in his afternoon class.

When it comes to digging himself out of a hole though, he is certainly better at it than his father.

 



 

We are trying to teach Michael to do things for himself, especially now that he is six. Grandma asked Michael to put away his toys. Michael refused.

Again, his ever patient grandmother asked him to put away his toys.

Exasperated, Michael says, “Grandma, when Cinderella’s mom died, her daddy got her a new mom. My daddy is going to get me a new grandma when you die.”

Translation: we aregetting a new and improved model, who will not tell me what to do.

Not exactly the lesson I wanted Michael to learn from Cinderella.

Thank you Disney.



 

Michael has an aunt; auntie Laura. Aunt Laura does not want any children and never has.

I admire her for her determination. She says that she has nephews, that’s enough. I believe her.

One day Michael was bugging his aunt Laura.

“Auntie Laura, is the mean fairy from Sleeping Beauty meaner than Jafar?”

To shut him up, his ever impatient Aunt Laura asks, “Michael, do you have any scientific proof that the mean fairy from Sleeping Beauty is meaner than the mean guy from Aladdin?”

Michael thinks about this for a brief moment and says, “Aunty Laura… I’m going to watch my movie now.”

Poor kid…

Mean aunt…



 

One evening after I put the boys to bed, I come downstairs to watch some television. If I am upstairs, and Michael is not sleeping, he will find any excuse to come find me and avoid going to bed. Of course, this does not mean that he does not come downstairs.

Michael comes down the stairs today and says to me “Are you out of your creepy little mind?”

What? I hadn’t said anything…

Maybe he is psychic. After all… I am out of my creepy little mind.

This made me laugh. Michael has never said that and these are not words we use.

  

 

 

On our way to autism school, I see a large truck in front of us driven by a young woman.

I was impressed, “Michael look at that huge truck. A girl is driving it.”

Unlike his mother, Michael is not impressed, “You’re a girl and you drive.”

Duh…

“Well, yes, but I can’t drive a big truck like that,” I say.

“Yeah, but I’ve seen that before,” says Michael still unimpressed.

“You know… you’re kind of amazing,” I say to him, fascinated that he did not find anything unusual about a woman driving a big truck, as I did.

Clearly, I need to learn a thing or two about the advancement of women in today’s society.

“I know,” answers my very humble son.

 



 

Michael is playing in my sink. Next to my sink, above the trash can is my towel. Michael decides to wipe his nose on my towel.

Frustrated, I say, “Michael, don’t wipe your nose on my towel. I use it to dry my face. I don’t want your boogers on my towel!”

Michael responds calmly, “That’s okay mom, the germs will jump in the trash can.”

All right, we’ve got acrobatic germs.

After he finishes playing in the water, he wipes his hands on my towel.

“Michael, please put the towel in the laundry basket.”

“Why?”

“Because it has your boogers on it.”

Michael, again, responds calmly, “Don’t worry mom, grandma will wash it in the washing machine.”

The voice of reason… again; or the mistaken belief about a woman’s role.

  



 

I was driving Michael to school when we passed a horse ranch. Three Clydesdales were standing in line, one behind the other.

I point them out to Michael, “Honey look, those horses are standing in a line. Isn’t that funny?”

“Why are they standing in a line?” asks Michael unimpressed.

“I don’t know, maybe they’re smelling their butts” I say laughing.

“Eww, that’s disgusting.”

Still laughing I ask Michael, “Do you know how doggies say hello?”

“How?”

“They smell each other’s butts” I say, not knowing if this is really true.

“That’s silly”

“I know” I say laughing, “you have a silly mama don’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, do you think you have a funny mama?”

“No.”

“What kind of mama do you have?”

“I have a regular mama” Michael responds emphatically.

And here I thought I was special. So much for that.

 



 

A while ago this conversation took place between my son and me:

“Mom? How can Santa bring us presents? We don’t have a chimney.”

Crap… that’s what I get for buying a newer house. Without a damn chimney.

“Well honey, Santa has Christmas magic so he can still come in even when we don’t have a chimney.”

Whew!!! He believed me.

Yes, I realize I am lying to my child, but I want him to believe in Santa.

Sue me.

 

Fast forward a few weeks…

 

For the millionth time, Michael asked me, “Mom, are dragons magic?”

For the millionth time, I answered, “Honey, magic is not real,” hoping to put an end to the question.

“But Santa’s magic is real.”

F#%*. ME! That’s what I get for lying to my kid about Santa.

 



 

The other day we received an incident report from autism school. While jumping on the trampoline, Michael hits himself in the eye with his knee.

I asked him, “Honey, are you alright?”

“Yes mom, don’t worry, I don’t have any brain damage,” he responds.

Ummm…. That’s good to know.

“I’m glad you’re okay honey,” I say laughing.

Brain damage?

Not exactly a phrase we use around the house. At least he used it appropriately.

 



 

Before going to bed, Michael says, “Mom, can you scratch my back?”

Me, grumbling, “Alright.”

I was in the middle of doing homework.

Yes, I’m old and I still go to school. I’m odd this way.

As I am scratching his back, Michael sighs, “I can’t take it any more mom.”

This doesn’t mean he wants me to stop.

“You can’t?” I say as I keep on scratching his back, “Why can’t you take it anymore?”

“Because I’m in love,” says Michael with a sigh.

Whoa!!!

“You are? Who are you in love with?”

I know… I ended the sentence with a preposition.

He looks at me smiling, “You.”

Mmm… please don’t ever change.

 



 

Michael’s love for his mother is evident. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such unconditional love from a little boy, but I am glad.

“Mom, we need to get married.”

I’m surprised, “We do? Why do we need to get married?”

“Because we are in love.”

“Oh honey, when you grow up you will not want to marry mom. You’ll want to find a pretty girl to love and marry.”

“No. I will live with you.”

“When you marry a girl, you will go live with her at your house.”

“But I will miss you,” insists Michael.

“We can talk on the phone every day.”

“But I will still miss you.”

“I will miss you too honey, but when you grow up, you will not want to live with mom.”

This is a never-ending conversation. Michael does not yet realize what it means to be in love and get married. At the same time I am honored, he feels this way about me. I just hope he will be independent and will not rely on my opinion so much.

 



 

I was watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy when Michael walks into my room. Because he is fascinated by medicine, he plops himself on my bed to watch.

It is a few minutes before the end of the show, so I decide to allow him to watch.

In this episode a medical student is hospitalized with Lou Gehrig’s disease, which is a neurodegenerative disease that affects the nerve cells in the brain. The disease is fatal.

The patient wants to stop treatment so he may donate his organs while they are still viable.

Michael is fascinated and is not saying a word as he is watching. He usually blathers non-stop during movies.

The end is here. The patient on a table and the doctors are stopping all the medicine. The patient’s breathing is labored, he slowly closes his eyes, and he dies. Heartbreaking music plays in the background and the show ends.

“Mom, why did he want to die?”

“Well honey, the doctors could not make him better, so he wanted to give his organs away so other people could use them.”

“What does that mean?”

I really should have explained it to him better, “It means that when a person dies, he can give away things like his eyes, so other people can see. They can also give away their heart, if it’s healthy.”

“Doesn’t he need his heart?”

“He will not need it. He’s dead. When he died his heart stayed healthy, so another person can use it.”

“Mom, that was beautiful.”

“It was? Why?” I ask surprised.

“Because he wanted to help other people.”



 

Michael is fascinated by death and dying.

“Mom, what happens when we die?” he asks for the 15^th time that day.

No, I really didn’t count.

I believe there is no such thing as truth, but perception. I want to give Michael a truthful answer; as I see it at least.

“I don’t know what happens when we die. Some people believe nothing happens. Others believe that we are born again.”

Michael seemed to like this last part of my answer, “Do we get born to the same parents?”

“I don’t know honey.”

“But how will I find you after I am born again?”

I am thrilled, “You want me as a mom again?”

“Yeah. Because I love you.”

I decide to push him, “What about papa, grandma, and Spuddie?”

“Yeah. I want grandma, and papa, and Spuddie, and Bailey to be my family again.” Bailey is aunt Laura’s dog.

Whew! I am doing something right.

“Mom! How will I find you if I am born again?” asks Michael again, clearly not forgetting I did not answer his question.

I don’t know!

“Because we love each other so much, our love will help us find each other.”

Michael smiles, “I like that.”

 



 

Michael missed a week of school because he’s been sick. We picked up his homework on Friday and he’s been doing homework the whole weekend.
Michael’s been dragging his feet… going to the bathroom, being tired, etc….
I got frustrated and said, “Michael you need to take care of your responsibilities and do your homework.”
Michael looks at me with a frown, “Mom, YOU’RE not taking care of YOUR responsibilities.”
“I am taking care of my responsibilities, by making sure you’re doing your homework.”
Silence.
No comeback.
This is indeed a miracle.



 

As we were driving home one day from autism school, Michael looks at the cloudy sky and says, “Those clouds look familiar.”
I’m surprised because I have never heard him say the word before, “They do?”
Michael pauses for a second, “Mom, what does familiar mean?”
How can he use the word correctly without knowing its meaning…
“It means that you have seen them before. Do they still seem familiar?”
“Yes.”
Goofy kid.

He takes after his father. After all, while driving through Wisconsin one day, his father and I were arguing about whether we were lost or not.

He was driving, when he informed me that we were not lost because the corn field on the left side of the road looked familiar.

  



 

Michael has a daily planner from school that I have to sign every day.

I realized I had not signed Michael’s planner in a few days, “Michael I forgot to sign your planner.”

Imagine my surprise when Michael says, “Don’t worry about it, I signed it for you.”
What?

I quickly open the planner and see Michael’s version of my signature. A nice try, I am almost impressed.

Dabbling in forgery at six?

 



 

One everning, before coming downstairs I had a conversation with Michael, about staying in bed, not getting up to follow me.
I go downstairs and I’m there for about 5 minutes when I think I hear something behind me. I look and see nothing.

I turn around and continue my thing, when I hear something again.

I do not believe in ghosts, so I took a chance and said, without turning around, ”Michael come here.”

Sure enough, Michael appears from around the corner.

He looks at me smiling. I’m trying to look stern but he’s so cute, ”Mom, at school when no one was looking, I practiced my sneaking and it worked like magic.”

“That’s amazing honey, I didn’t hear you. Can you please practice going to bed?”

He complied with my request, surprisingly.

  



 

Michael: “Mom, is there a bone in my penis?”
Oh crap…

“No honey, there is no bone in your penis. Your penis is a muscle.”
Yes, I know it is not technically a muscle, but it’s the easiest way to explain it to Michael.
“How can it be a muscle if there is no bone there?” asks Michael.
A long time ago I told him that we have muscles around our arm and leg bones.
Damn! I should’ve been a doctor.

This kids wants to know stuff I don’t know about.
Since then, I have found out that it’s more like a sponge that fills up with blood. Not sure I wanted to know that, but for my boys, I’ll do anything.

I mean… I touch spiders now for Goodness’ Sake.

 



 

After I ordered my food at the Taco Bell drive thru one evening, my food was handed to me by a very polite and lovely young man.

A very flaming, gay young man (not that there’s anything wrong with that – whatever and whomever floats his… boat).

Why should us straight people be the only ones to suffer through marriage?

I’m too told and too tired to care about others, as well as how and with whom they choose to… associate.

As we are driving away, Michael is confused, “Mom, was that a boy or a girl?”
I just burst out laughing because he is so perceptive.

I said, “That was a boy honey.”
Michael drops the subject.

Man… I’m glad I did not have to explain anything to him. I don’t think I’d know how to.

 



 

I was studying with Michael for a science quiz. It was about the cycle of life, what do animals eat, how do plants get food, etc.
I was testing Michael when I asked, “So Michael what do plants need to survive.”

He answers, “Food..”

“How do they get their food.”

–The answer is sun, air, soil, water. —

Michael responds, “They hunt.”

I’m a little frustrated, “Michael, when was the last time you saw plant walking around going hunting.”

Michael begins to laugh, “Oh!”

Watch out for the tree with the hunting bow.

After I shared the above with his dad, I just have to share the response:

“So plants need to hunt? Yeah, truth be told, the other day I ran into a ficus carrying a 9-millimeter; he was menacing me.

I finally had enough of him and said, in my big, stern voice, “You leaf me alone!!”

Next thing I know, I was looking at a pile of toothpicks.

I can be rather intimidating to those lesser species, ya know.”

 



 

One lovely evening, Michael and I went to get an ice cream cone.

As we are driving Michael asks,” Mom is that the North Star?” pointing to a star in the sky.

“No honey, the North Star is the brightest star in the sky,” I respond (not knowing at the time it was the wrong answer).

We drive for another minute when I see the brightest star in the sky (which happens to be Venus) and say, “Michael look, there’s the North Star.”

Michael immediately responds, “But North is that way. I thought the North Star was in the North,” pointing behind us.

“You’re right,” I answer, realizing I gave him the wrong answer, “you’re so smart!”

I am now convinced that if there is a “smarts gene” it skipped a generation, namely ME.

I have since learned that Polaris is the North Star and it is NOT the brightest star in the sky, but does always appear due North.

Once again… way to go Mom!

 



 

“Mom, did you know that the color of the oceans and the lakes is not really blue?” asks Michael.

“Then why do they look blue?”

“It’s a reflection of the blue sky.”

“Really? What color are they then?”

“Grey like the sink water.”

I will never again worry about Michael. He is clearly smarter than I am. Smarter than his father. Honestly, I didn’t know why the water is blue. Never even occurred to me to question it.

His answer is right. I had to look it up.

 



 

The other day I was sitting in bed when my tummy began to hurt. Not realizing Michael was next to me, I made what I thought, was a painful sound like “Oooohhhh”.
Michael looks over and asks, “What’s wrong?”
“My tummy hurts,” I answer.
Without missing a beat Michael says, “I heard that if you stop complaining, it won’t hurt as much.”
Seriously? Who are you and what have you done with my son?

 



 

Michael: “Mom, when they make chocolate do they put milk in it?”
Me, trying to figure out where this was going: “Umm… I think so.”
Michael, with a sly smile: “So when I eat chocolate, it’s like I’m drinking milk.”

Aaand there it is ladies and gentlemen… my kid trying to justify eating more chocolate.

 



 

I am sure my life is normal.

Crazy, but normal.

I don’t know if my boys are typical children or not. I hope they will overcome their autism and live independent, happy, fulfilling lives.

I can say with almost certainty that Michael will be independent. I also believe his mouth will get him in trouble. He would make a great orator however.

Please don’t let him become a politician.

A lawyer yes; not a politician.

I sometimes fear the boy Michael may become. He is so set in his beliefs that it is sometimes difficult to change his mind, even at this young tender age. But he is also compassionate, smart, and incredibly perceptive.

I don’t yet know about Robert. Robert is quiet, until he chooses to grace us with his words. In the end, Robert may surprise us all.

I have been blessed with boys who make me laugh, boys who make me cry, boys who make me crazy, boys who keep me on my toes, and boys who have yet to teach me patience.

I certainly would not change a second of my life with them – this includes my ever patient husband.

 



 

Thank you for allowing me to share a little of Michael’s… adventures.