Truth or denial

My six year old son, who happens to be what we in the mom profession call a “triple threat;” smart, willful and extremely manipulative, told his teacher the reason he misbehaves is because his body wont do what his brain asks of him. This response set off a flury of attention. “Children don’t say things like that unless there is something very wrong.” They advised nervously.

I’m not living in denial or unwilling to see my kid’s flaws. Honestly, I’m such an obsessively self-analytical creature (which extends to my offspring as well), that I think I’m the first person to point out and try to fix their imperfections. But his teachers see his disruptive behavior and subsequent brain/body response as proof of some serious psychological impairment. They want me to have a full neuro-psych evaluation – only $1500 (not that money matters when you’re talking about your kids). I said in his defense, “Look, he probably heard someone say that. He says a lot of weird stuff.”

“Well,” counseled the experts, “Most 6 year old boys do not say a lot of weird stuff.”

Do you ever feel like you just can’t win?

I’ve been a bad blogger…

Ok, I’m sorry. I’ve let you down. I’ve taken this relationship for granted and stopped trying to build it up on a daily basis. I’ve neglected you, disappointed you, abandoned you. I’m an idiot. We had something really great and I blew it. Please, give me another chance. I will devote the time you deserve to making this right. It wont happen again. I’m here for you, honestly. You can count on me. I’m rededicating myself to us.

What? Right now? Well, I don’t have any great insights right now. I’ll…I’ll come up with something. I swear. I wont fail you. Just give me a day or two, okay? Well, how ’bout a few hours? Alright, I’m on it.

New meaningful blog filled with pithy, thoughtful insights pending.

d

Your tax dollars at work!

Okay, what is wrong with this picture? Our State is literally going broke. We don’t have enough space to house the criminal offenders we have. Our law enforcement officers are radically understaffed because of funding issues. Our courts our ridiculously overcrowded. And yet, there’s enough manpower, money and chutzpah to send an official “officer of the court” to my private residence at 8:30 at night (on a school night) to serve me f-ing papers for a traffic camera ticket I received in July. I have to ask, could we possibly put our resources to better use?

So I’ve finally gotten my five-year-old to bed and am tucking in my 9-year-old when the doorbell rings. This is odd since we live in a gated community and never received a call from the guard gate that someone was here for us. We live in a very anti-social neighborhood (don’t get me started) and only know a few of our neighbors, none of whom randomly show up at odd hours of the night to borrow a cup of sugar or ask for help with a run-away pooch. I run to the door and ask the obligatory “Who is it?”

No answer.

Now any sane individual wouldn’t open the door at this point. But I guess I figured it was some poor, lost mute looking for aid and I swung the door open with total abandon. There stood this scramble-haired, gen-Y kid in jeans and a skater-looking t-shirt. “Um…Are you Debra?” he asked. Suddenly my senses returned and I realized this probably wasn’t the Publisher’s Clearing House here to deliver my 10 million dollar prize. In the meantime, my little guy, who was jarred awake by the doorbell, is now screaming frantically for me to come to him, and my older son is anxiously shivering in a towel in his doorway.

“No,” I said with the conviction of a well trained perjurer. “Why?”

“I have to…um…serve these papers to…um…Debra.” he clumsily announced.

“Well, she’s not here,” I continued with the fabrication. “Do you want me to give them to her?” (Now, let me note here that I thought in order for papers to be properly served they had to go to the individual named in said papers.)

“That’d be great,” he said handing me the papers. He turned to leave and then looked back. “By the way, what was your name?”

“Um…Diane,” I said, “I’m the baby sitter.”

“Uh huh,” he smiled as if to let me know he wasn’t fooled by my inane charade.

I closed the door and immediately opened the letter It was a photo-radar ticket from July. “You have got to be kidding,” I muttered with incredulity, adding a few choice words along the way. “What the hell is wrong with these people? Aren’t there real criminals they could go after? I mean, what are they gonna do, put me in jail?” My nine-year-old is now sobbing uncontrollably. I run to him and pull him close. “Honey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want mommy to go to jail,” he wimpered.

“Mommy isn’t going to jail, sweetie. This is nothing. Please don’t worry,” I reassured him.

I finally managed to settle my children, calm their fears and get them to bed. But it was already after 9 and I knew that the next day was bound to be a tough one since they usually go to bed well before 8.

The ticket is for $220. I don’t deny that the ticket was deserved, or that the hideous photo is actually me. But can anyone tell me why they needed to come to my house at 8:30 at night, disrupt my children’s routine, and waste an abundance of time, energy and resources for something as insignificant as a four-month old speeding ticket?

Maybe I should send this to Sheriff Joe. He’s a sensible guy. I bet he’d go after the idiot beurocrats who sent the scraggly kid to my doorstep to terrorize my children and annoy the hell out of me. Hmmm….maybe he’ll help me if I tell him that kid was an illegal?

Give me back my Kindle!

I’m okay sharing my bank account, my bed, my body, my children, my soul etc… But don’t ask me to share my Kindle! Look, there are some things that are just not shareable, and my KIndle is one of them.

Okay, so it’s not really MY Kindle. If you want to be technical about it, it’s his. I bought it for him for his birthday last year. It is probably the only gift I’ve ever given him that he actually enjoys. He used it all summer during our travels and he used to use it each morning on the ellipticle. But he got busy at work, ceased exercising altogether and left it to atrophy on his bedside table.

I tried to leave it alone.I knew it wasn’t mine. And honestly, I didn’t think I would become so attached so quickly. But after three trips to various Barnes & Nobles, searching for my latest book club book, I decided it was absurd to waste my time looking for a hardcover version of some $25 book that I was literally going to read and then throw away. So in a weak moment, I ordered a book from the Kindle store and started reading.

Then I was hooked. I started using it every night before bedtime. After a few nights, I started taking it with me during the day for down-times during my carpool regime. I started to wonder how I had ever lived without it (kind of like garage door openers or television remote controls.) I began reading voraciously. One night it finally ran out of juice and I could barely cope. Luckily I found a way to stretch the cord to my bed so I could manage my now ritualistic nighttime reading.

And then it happened. I climbed into bed a about a week ago, turned on my bedside lamp and reached for my new addiction. It was gone. My husband was innocently snoozing beside me. I leapt out of bed and began racing through the house in search of my drug of choice. Finally I found it lodged between two cushions on the couch. I gently cradled it in my arms and safely returned to bed with it. But when I “slid and released the power switch to wake” my coveted mechanism, I was met not with Dinesh D’Souza’s Life After Death: The Evidence but instead found myself smack dab in the center of Norman Podhoretz’s Why are Jews Liberals? It was an afront to my psyche. The last thing I need to be reading before bedtime is some of my husband’s right-wing political propaganda.

I was able to find my spot back in my D’Souza book and his well researched data and philosophical musings helped to ease my mind and allowed me to drift off to sleep peacefully. But this was more than a one night mishap. Every night for a week I’ve gone through a similar trauma. One night I landed mysteriously in Stock Market Wizards by Jack Schwager. Another night proved particularly upsetting when I found myself trapped in the mystical Kabbalah, Science and the Meaning of Life by Rav Michael Laitman. But perhaps most disturbing was my accidental forray into Stevens Levitt and Dubner’s SuperFreakonomics: Global Cooling, Patriotic Prostitutes and Why Suicide Bombers Should Buy Life Insurance.

I ask you, objectively, are these the kinds of books one should be reading as one relinquishes consciousness and ventures into another dimension? Certainly not! And more importantly, should I be forced consistently to rampage through the house in a frantic effort to locate this pint-size electronic device?

So I have decided to allow my husband the use of his Kindle under the following circumstances:

1) He must accept the fact that it is now my piece of equipment and while he may use it from time to time, he must remember to always keep it charged and replace it from whence it came.

2) I officially have the right of first refusal regarding Kindle usage.

3) Should a Kindle conflict arrise, I alone will assess the situation and render a fair and just judgement as to who is entitled to Kindle usage at that time.

4) He will be responsible for any maintanence/repairs needed on said Kindle.

5) Finally, should we fill up all available Kindle space we will jointly determine which books to delete. (With me obviously having the final say should we come to a standstill.)

Well, I feel much better. It’s wonderful when two people can learn to live harmoniously together. All it takes is a little effort and communication.

The Kindle that almost destroyed our marriage

Thankful

This being Thanksgiving weekend, I started to think about all the things I’m thankful for:

I’m thankful that my family is well and happy (most of the time).

I’m thankful for garage door openers and TV remote controls.

I’m thankful that my youngest son who was born blind is able to see clearly.

I’m thankful that it’s not 110 degrees out anymore.

I’m thankful for antibiotics.

I’m thankful for Sprouts, Fresh N Easy, and Trader Joes.

I’m thankful my kids love each other (most of the time).

I’m thankful McDonalds is an annual treat for my kids and not a daily destination. (and I’m thankful that my kids are afraid to venture into those germy ball pit areas).

I’m thankful to be doing rewarding work.

I’m thankful on no homework nights.

I’m thankful my kids love and respect their teachers.

I’m thankful shoulder pads haven’t come back in yet. (Remeber Norma Kamali?)

I’m thankful my husband takes an equal role in child rearing (most of the time).

I’m thankful that we have a solid roof over our heads and clothes on our backs.

I’m thankful for a glass of wine every now and again when my children’s whining gets to be too much for me.

I’m thankful for Mr. Clean eraser sponges (Are they amazing or what?)

I’m thankful that my children are out of diapers, done with bottles, and can make their own lunches.

I’m thankful for itunes.

I’m thankful for my mother-in-law (most of the time).

I’m thankful for my laptop which keeps me productive during hours of carpool waiting.

I’m thankful for Facebook which has allowed me to catch up with friends from my youth.

I’m thankful for “Love and Logic” CDs which are teaching me better parenting techniques.

I’m thankful for resale shops.

I’m thankful for no-pudge fudge, Weight Watcher 2 point brownies, and mint Skinny Cows.

I’m thankful that we have family in town (most of the time).

It might sound silly or corny or way too Oprah, but sit down once and a while and ask yourself, “what am I truly grateful for?” You might surprise yourself.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Debra

Autism hysteria: look at the facts!

The facts:
1.Autism is a neural development disorder.
2.Autism is genetically based.
3.There is no cure for autism.

A recent study in the Journal “Pediatrics” suggests that 1 in 100 children have some form of Autism Spectrum Disorder. Thatʼs about 1% of children.

It sounds scary. But letʼs pretend weʼre Nancy Drew or Encyclopedia Brown for a moment. Letʼs start by examining how the data was collected:

In phone interviews of 78,000 families, parents were asked if their child was ever told by any health care provider that he had an autism spectrum disorder (ASD). (Keep in mind that includes autism, Aspergers and pervasive developmental disorder).

Honestly, Iʼm not sure I know anyone who wasnʼt told at some point by someone that their child had ASD. Either kids were stacking cans, refusing to socialize, or throwing tantrums at Target. Whatever the negative behavior, there are plenty of health care providers out there who are all too willing to label the first signs of antisocial behavior as ASD. However, the mere asking does not dictate the disease.

The investigators also asked a follow-up question: Did these same ASD children still have the disease? The answer? 40% of parents and guardians said no.

OK, I know how inconvenient factual evidence can be, but letʼs glance back to the three undisputed facts at the top of the page. Check out number 3. There is no cure for Autism. Get out your magnifying glass and fingerprint duster kit. Itʼs not going to take much detective work to figure this one out. Obviously, 40% of kids included in the ASD numbers did not really have autism at all. Why am I the only one who sees this clearly? Do you think nearly half of all ASD sufferers were touched by some kind of Godly miracle? Maybe these lucky kids were prayed for by a group of extremely pious Tibetan monks? Or maybe they never had autism to begin with!

Iʼm tired of the hysteria. There are more cases of autism and ASD today because thatʼs how weʼre classifying every childhood behavioral abnormality. Have you ever bothered to notice that the numbers of children labelled mentally retarded has decreased in direct proportion to the increase of ASD sufferers? Wow, what a starting coincidence.

But what really pisses me off is that people want to believe in a cure that doesn’t yet exist. We want it so badly that we’re willing to believe anything. Look, I think we will find a cure, and hopefully soon. It will more than likely involve some highly advanced genetic engineering. Scientists are working hard to locate the Autism genes and find ways to repair or replace them. But it could take years. And I think itʼs a shame that so many families are shelling out good money to charlatans who promise to end Autism thru detox, diet, exercise, chiropractic adjustments, and laser treatments. If your child truly has autism, these fads are a waste of money and hope.

Don’t get me wrong, Iʼm all for giving your child all that you can in terms of love, resources, encouragement, education. If you have a child who does truly suffer from Autism, my deepest wish is that a cure will be found and that you and your child can live a relatively normal life. All I ask is that we donʼt insist that every childhood behavioral quirk is part of the Autism Spectrum. Letʼs use the resources and money we have for the children who really need it. That way we really can concentrate our efforts on solving the mystery of this debilitating disease.

Glowing up

Halloween. My kids, who have never enjoyed a really great All Hallow’s Eve because we live in the lamest neighborhood in the universe, full of snow birds, snobs and seniors, are finally experiencing the holiday as it’s meant to be. They’re racing through my best friend’s neighborhood, lit only by the neon glow sticks she gave them when we left her house. Hundreds of costumed kids line the streets. There are parties, haunted houses, and mounds of candy everywhere. They’re having a ball.

Around 8pm I look over at my 9-year-old son, Levi, and notice something odd on his costume. There are little glowing spots of light running down the front of his clown suit. I’m slightly mesmerized by them, wondering what they could be. Suddenly, I look up and see that he’s like frothing at the mouth and more glowing liquid is dripping from his lips. “Oh my God,” I scream. “What’s wrong with you?” I grab him and pull him towards me. All he can say is “Something tastes bad,” and he continues to spit the incandescent fluid out of his mouth. I scream for my husband, the pediatrician. “Something’s wrong with Levi,” I cry. “Do something!”

Mark runs over to our son, grabs him, and tries to make sense out of the situation. He’s not getting very far when my friend’s husband says, “He was chewing on that glow stick,   you know.” Suddenly, it all makes sense. My child is ingesting some kind of radioactive phenol and I’m certain he’s not long for this world. I begin to hyperventilate (OK, I’m not really good in a crisis). Levi’s still spitting and Mark is efficiently rinsing out his mouth with a bottle of Aquafina.

Halloween pre glow stick ingestion

 

 

After a few minutes, it appears that Levi hasn’t actually swallowed any of the poisonous substance. I begin to breathe again. There’s no point in telling him not to ever chew on anything, ever again. I’ve been saying that since he was 2 years old. I guess maybe the scare from my terror-filled reaction might dissuade his next potential chewing disaster. But, you never really know. I also thought that throwing away his ipod shuffle might teach him to be more responsible with his toys. So far that hasn’t worked either.

Saving the tooth fairy

My five-year-old son, Eli, lost his first tooth last week. We were all excited, the tooth fairy especially. She left Eli $5! Well, it was his first tooth after all.

Then a few nights later, when my husband and I were out on date night, he lost his second tooth. When we got home around 8pm (I know that’s embarrassing for date night, but we get up really early). Anyway, he was still sitting up in his bed waiting to tell us the good news. We were excited and both my husband and I made mental notes to be sure and leave a dollar in the little tooth fairy tooth box. Needless to say, we both forgot. (Okay, don’t call CPS. It was an honest mistake. We just got busy doing other stuff and then fell into bed exhausted.)

Morning came and flooded with expectation, Eli opened his little box to find nothing but his sweet little tooth still sitting there just as he’d left it. “There is no tooth fairy!” he wailed. As his little sobs grew stronger, my older son, Levi (9), awoke and rushed into his brother’s room next door. “No, Eli,” he said. “The tooth fairy did come! She just got a little confused. She came into my room accidentally.” He then ran into his room and grabbed four quarters from his desk drawer before racing back into Eli’s room. “See?” he said, holding out his hand full of coins. “She said to be sure and give these to you. So, here you go.”

Eli smiled with renewed awe and wonder. His brother had saved the tooth fairy for him. But bigger than that, Levi had come to his brother’s rescue as only a sibling can. I’m really gonna try and remember that the next time he steals Eli’s Sponge Bob pillow and torments him by threatening to throw the yellow, porous quadrilateral into the trash bin.

Rejection

I had jury duty yesterday, and for the first time ever, I wasn’t able to get out of it.
Now I have to admit that part of me thought the whole thing was kind of cool; fulfilling my responsibility as an American citizen, and all that patriotic stuff. But after 20 minutes of sitting in the crowded holding room with 25 other potential jurors, I was pretty much over the whole civic duty propaganda.

Visions of “12 Angry Men” filled my head as I carefully assessed each of the other prospective jurors. would that nice middle-aged woman with the cute hair-cut be the Jack Lemmon character? Would I? Who can predict who will stand up for the downtrodden defendant and who will sympathize with the alleged victim?

Once we moved into the courtroom, the judge asked us a bunch of questions about our preconceived notions and biases. It was a DUI case so he asked us about our alcoholic drinking practices, our understanding of the drinking and driving laws, whether we were related to attorneys or law enforcement officers. And then came the fateful question: were we ever involved in a drunk driving incident. I raised my hand immediately, surprised that the memory was still so accessible. It had been 15 years, but you don’t forget having your car totaled by a drunk driver whose head going through his own windshield didn’t even sober him up. I thought it was odd that the judge didn’t even ask me the standard follow up question “would anything about that prevent you from rendering an unbiased opinion in this case?” Hmmm? Maybe that meant I’d be excused and could still run a few errands before pick-up.

After the questioning, they led us into the main hall to await their selection. When we came back into the courtroom, they read the names of the chosen jurors and asked them to take seats in the jury box. But here’s the really strange part; instead of feeling relieved, remember I didn’t want to do this in the first place, I felt rejected. Why hadn’t they wanted me? I could have been impartial. I mean, one drunk apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, girl. My heart sank. I looked around to see if the weird lady with the photo tote was disappointed too? What about that pretty law school student, was she disheartened?

The selected jurors looked proud, as if there was something special about them. I even detected a slightly haughty air as they glanced around the room at those of us still sitting in the cheap seats. They actually felt superior to us. I mean after all, they had made the cut. It reminded me of every cheerleading and pom-pon try-out I’d botched. It was weird.

My spurned feelings abated much quicker than usual, though. On average, I spend at least 48 hours berating myself for every rejection notice I get these days. In this instance, I felt fully recovered by the time I pulled out of the parking lot.

I consoled myself with a trip to Saks and a frozen yogurt. I only wish that would work with my more significant disappointments.

Sight unseen

It’s picture time again and I need to know if my dilemma is unique. At my kids’ school, the photographs usually suck. I wouldn’t lose sleep over that, except that they make us pre-order them; like before they even take them. This is irritating to me. I mean if they had a history of producing high quality, attractive photos that could actually be displayed on a mantel somewhere, that might be easier to swallow. But in the past four years, not one of my older son’s pictures has even approached decent. I know, you’re thinking, “Well, maybe your son just isn’t that photogenic or worse, maybe he’s seriously homely.” But, and I’m being objective, neither of those are true. Besides, I’m not expecting perfection, just a picture that I’m not embarrassed when handing out those stupid little wallet-size shots. (By the way, does anyone actually enjoy getting those? I for one find them to be a huge nuisance and catalogue them immediately into the nearest circular file).

With so many potential battles to wage on the school front though, I’ve made the conscious decision to let this one slide. After all, it’s only a picture. But here’s the problem; if I don’t order the pictures, on principal, my kids are disappointed because they don’t get that silly class photo of classmates they’ll never remember by the time they look back at it 10 years from now. So I could order the smallest package they sell. It includes one 8×10, the class photo and 4 useless wallet prints. But even that’s $30. Multiply that times two kids and I just flushed $60 down the toilet on pictures I wouldn’t use to line my cat box with. (Okay, I don’t really have a cat. But you know what I mean).

But the even bigger problem, the one that haunts me every year as I try to decide what to do, is this: what if this time, this one time, I make the practical choice to not buy the darn things and the pics turn out brilliant? I mean, how lousy will I feel then?

So I’m really curious, is this pre-order thing standard operating procedure at other schools or is it unique to ours? And what would you do given the history of bad photos, the economic downturn and the sheer annoyance factor of being manipulated to buy the damn things sight unseen?