Asperger syndrome is an autism spectrum disorder, and people with it therefore show significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. It differs from other autism spectrum disorders by its relative preservation of linguistic and cognitive development. Although not required for diagnosis, physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported.
<sup>From: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aspergers

Our almost-8-year-old daughter has Asperger's Syndrome.  Having a child with any degree of Autism is, ohhhh, like the worst nightmare EVER.  And we have a 3-year-old, too.  So, multiply parenting difficulties by a 2.7 million, and you have our lives.

I mean, it is seriously overwhelming.

But I'm starting to wonder about myself.  Because I begin and end most sentences with "my kid has Autism."  Here's what I mean:</sup>

• ^{"Dear Professor, I'm sorry my final paper will be late.  My kid has Autism."} 
• ^{"Hey Husband, can you gas up the cars, do the dishes, go through the mail, and pay all the bills...I can't get to it.  We have a kid with Autism." (Just in case he wasn't aware.)}
• ^{"I'm gonna write a book about raising a kid with Autism.  But I can't right now.  I'm so busy-- my kid has Autism."} 
• ^{"Hello, yes, IRS?  Okay yeah, way, way sorry we haven't paid our taxes in 8 years -- our kid has Autism.  Can we work this out?" (Thankfully, this hasn't actually happened. YET.)}
• ^{"What, Officer?  I was doing 96mph in a 25? Oh shit, sorry.  You see, I have a kid with Autism, and right now I'm racing to McDonald's for Chicken McNuggets, because, um, she has to have those chicken nuggets." (Thankfully, this hasn't actually happened yet, either, but it's certainly in my future.)}

<sup>Okay, so procrastinating makes some sense, right? (I mean, my kid has Autism after all, and life is hard.) But I find, too, that I get mad at people for opening up the most innocent of conversations.  Examples include, but are not limited to:


Someone: Have you seen "Avatar?"
Me: NO!  We have a kid with Autism! We can't do anything! Ever! It sucks! We are so stressed out! I can't even finish a load of laundry! My husband can barely get to work! I'm trying to finish a second Master's!  I WISH we could go to a movie, but that's like totally foreign to us now.  Must be nice. Going to movies and all.  Hmph.


Someone: Heeey, good to see you!  How have you been? 
Me: Dude, I'm fuckin' stressed.  We have a kid with Autism...well, Asperger's really, but same damn difference.  Our house is inside-out.  Our lives are upside-down!  We are so stressed out. OMG, it totally sucks.  I'm losin' it - I gotta tell ya, losin' it.


Someone: So, what are you doing for Easter? 
Me: Oh, fuck, I have no idea.  My kid has Autism.  That means we can't do normal things.  Or maybe we can.  Fuck, I don't know.  I mean, the smell of eggs would really bother her.  I don't know if I should dye eggs.  She'd get frustrated searching for them so I don't know if I should do an Easter egg hunt.  But fuck, I have the little one, too, and she'd love that shit.  I don't know what to do OH MY GOD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME

Someone: I'm so worried about my son.  He's struggling in math. I wonder if something is wrong.  I get so worried.  I don't know what's going on.
Me: **&^#@!!!!!(%^%@$%$!!@^!!!**


But then, there's the famous backpedal, or the "Next Day Apology" as my friends have come to know it.  I used to administer the Next Day Apology after a night of drunken debauchery that usually included nudity and kissing strangers on the street.  But now (because my kid has Autism), I don't drink much.  Now, I'm just a straight-up whack job.  No alcohol necessary.


Me calling Someone: Hi, uhhh, it's me.  Yeah, so you know, well, this is awkward.  Ahem.  Um.  Ok, I'm really embarrassed about yesterday.  I'm sorry I yelled at you about Avatar.  You see, ever since this Autism thing really took hold..."</sup>

Okay, so let's review.  People with Asperger's often have:
1.  Significant difficulties in social interaction
2.  Restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests


HEY WAIT A MINUTE OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK?

It all started with this thing.  It used to be called "Pound-a-Ball," but I see that someone figured out it shouldn't be called that.  It's now called the "B Whacky Ball."  This is a great toy for a 1-year-old; it runs ya $14.99.  But...buyer beware.

O.D. got one of these for her 1st birthday.  After the party, I was trying to teach her how to play it.  These were my instructions:

"Ok, put the ball in the hole.  GOOD!  Ok, now put your stick in your hand.  GOOD!  Now, you take the stick and pound the ball down into the hole.  Um, no not quite...oh wait! There ya go!  YES! Pound the ball.  Bang it!  Go ahead.  Pound it hard, so it goes all the way in.  GOOD!  Uh-oh...did it get wet?"

I thought, hmmmm, this doesn't sound right.  I found myself looking over my shoulder for child protective services.

Over the years, I've noticed that as parents we say very, very strange things to our children.  And children say very, very strange things to us.  I've polled some friends and asked, "What weird things do you say to your kids? What weird things do they say to you?"  Here's the current list.  I'm sure it will grow.

Things we've said to them:

Places they've been:

• "Do not jump up and down in the dishwasher!"
• "Please get out of the dryer." 
• "Are you in the closet?" 

What belongs, and what doesn't:

• "I've said this enough times, and you should know, we do not put our fork between our toes."
• "Our sippy cup does not belong on our feet."
• "Your feet do not belong in my butt." (There's a foot theme here, I know.)
• "Things that have touched your bottom don't go in your mouth."
• "Please do not put your dinosaur tail up your nose."
• "My bra does not go on your face."

What should not be ingested:

• "We do not eat the things that come out of our noses."
• "We don't drink the water that has the snails in it."

Just plain wrong:

• "Aaaand, what don't we do at preschool?  Touch our private parts, that's right!"
• "Don't touch each other in the bathtub."
• "When people come over, we should have clothes on."
• "Please wait -- I can't turn into a princess when I'm on the potty."
• "OH MY GOD! You do that in your room, not in the tree house!"

Things they've said to us:

• "You're going pee-pee, Mommy?  Lemme see!"
• "Ya wanna play with me?" (as she grabs her crotch)
• "Wanna come play checkers in my rainbow house?"
• "Don't fight the love!" - as spoken by a 7 year old.
• "Mom! Stop texting your boyfriend!"

The Most Wrong Thing Ever, A Completely True Short Story:
(Honey, you know I have to tell this one.)


When O.D. was 3 years old, she was obsessed with the solar system.  She still is, actually.  Kids on the Autistic spectrum have a tendency toward such things.  Fortunately, her conversations about astronomy have come a long way since this happened.

One day, O.D. was running through her standard list of questions, the ones she asked us every single day for a like an entire fucking year.  I was fucking sick and tired of answering these questions, so Husband was answering.

O.D.: Do you like to play with Mercury?

Husband: Yes, I like to play with Mercury.

O.D.: Do you like to play with Venus?

Husband: Yes, I like to play with Venus.

O.D: Do you like to play with Jupiter?

Husband: Yes, I like to play with Jupiter.

O.D.: Do you like to play with Pluto?

Husband: Yes, I like to play with Pluto.

O.D.: Do you like to play with Uranus?

Husband: Yes, I like to play with my anu-- hey, wait a minute!!


What weird exchanges have you had with kids? Come on, you can tell me, right there in the comments.  I won't breathe a word of it.

I can almost tolerate the mess.  I can almost tolerate the whining.  I can almost tolerate 147 episodes of Word World.  But what I cannot tolerate is the bedtime bullshit.  I have two daughters.  One is 7, closing in on 8.  She has Asperger's Syndrome which fucking sucks the world's most grotesque dick.  But at least she fucking goes to bed.  The 3-year-old, however, just pisses me off.

I'm a night person.  The nights are "me" time.  I do extremely, extremely important things at night.  I watch TV and eat snacks.  I step out for a smoke.  I arrange and rearrange pillows.  I kick my snoring husband.  So, little child, you can fuck with me during daylight hours all you want (well, after 12pm anyway), but DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MOMMY'S. MOONSHINE. MOONTIME.

We start the process at 8:30pm.  She purposively deceives me with extraordinary acts of obedience...at first.  She goes to her room and turns off her main light (we leave the closet light on -- fuck being Green when you have kids).  I go with her.  I lie down with her, yes I do, because I can't fucking listen to the fucking crying, so I lie down with her until she drifts off.  And then the ritual begins.

"Mommy, are you gonna sleep with me for just a little bit minutes?"

"YES."

"Mommy, you turned off the yittle light and I can't see my white milk!"

"You can see it fine."

"Mommy, I need new water!  This one's yucky!"

"Your water is fine."

"Mommy, I need my tums-tums.  My tummy hurts!"

"Your tummy is fine!  It does not hurt!"

"Mommy, I'm hungry.  My tummy is rummbleeen!"

"There's nothing else to eat tonight."

She cries a little.

"Daughter, if you want me to stay with you, you need to lie down and be quiet."

She gets up.  Circles her bed.  (It's actually a foam egg-crate on the floor -- that's another story.)

"Okay, Mommy.  Just oooonne minute...lemme jus' put this blanket on you. Ok?  Ok, mommy?  I will put this blanket on you?"

She gets a Dora blanket and tucks me in all nice.  She makes sure the blanket is perfectly lined up, no corners are folded under, and that it's right-side-up.  She lies down.  For one minute.  Then she gets back up, takes my fucking blanket, and repeats the entire ritual, only this time tucking herself in.

She situates her pillow.  Drinks some water.

Then she starts scratching my back and playing with my hair.  OMG, that feels really good.  I guess she feels badly about ripping the Dora right off my cold body. (Or, she's trying to get me to fall asleep first so she can call her other little nocturnal buddies and find out who's picking up the keg on the way over.)

Then she starts singing to her feet.

(Problem is, this is insane amounts of cute, and I giggle a bit.)

After the foot serenade, she begins careful examination of her Strawberry Shortcake doll.

When she gets up to poop, I've had it.

Good night.  And thank you, Benadryl.

from: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/diet


Ok, so look, here's how I diet.  I'm pretty good at maintaining my weight, or at least using those pills that make you pee out one extra pound of water.  Last year, I was successful (on one attempt out of one-hundred), at reducing myself from my-jeans-are-tight-oh-god-help-me-I-can't-breathe to ok-now-I-can-breathe-a-little.

I once used an online diet calculator.  I wanted to figure out how many calories I should consume per day in order to lose ten pounds.  But those diet calculators want you to actually type in your current weight!  What?!  They can't be serious!  I don't know my current weight. Because I don't do scales.  I do not weigh myself.  Ever.  I have a number in my head that I believe to be true.  If I were to discover that the number in my head is lower than the actual value, I would be forced into exercise.  Which is basically the same as suicide.  And my kids need me.

In addition, I will not get on a scale at the doctor's office.  I don't mean that I get on it and turn backwards so as not to see my weight.  I mean, I don't get on it.  Ever. (Well, unless I'm pregnant and they give me that bullshit guilt trip about the health of my unborn child. Jerks.)C'mon, nurses!  When you say, "Can you just turn around and not look at your weight?", is it because you don't think we can hear the clunk of that metal doohickey? The louder the clunk, the fatter you are.  And that platform you step on?  I draw the line there; things that "give" when I step on them are not okay.

(Oh, hold on...quick shout-out to a good friend I promised to mention in today's post: Thank you so much, Patriarchal Society, for my high self-esteem and deep love of my own body!  Love you!  Also, thanks for the awesome pool of men you've provided.)

But I digress.  Ok.  So like I was saying, here's how I diet*.  I first calculate how many calories I should consume.  I have heard that no adult woman should go below 1400 calories a day.**  It's just too few.  Yeah, right, I think.  Watch me defy forty zillion years of evolution.  I'll go lower!  This is diet fucking limbo...and I'm gonna win.  Brittney Spears got her "Beach Ready Bikini Bod!" on 1300 calories a day.  I'm going with that.  She's someone to emulate.

My diet plan is easy, and super delicious:

• Breakfast: an ice cream treat.  
• Lunch: fast food.  
• Dinner: hot chocolate. (You will burn more calories if you drink it in front your kids at dinnertime.  It takes a lot of energy to yell, "Eat your vegetables!" as they beg to have hot cocoa for dinner.  Also, "because I said so" burns 50 calories per utterance.)

Now.  You can't have just any ice cream for breakfast.  It has to be something like an ice cream bar or Dreyer's Dibs.  Counting calories is much easier this way because you don't have to measure out your portion.  At the most advanced diet level, all you have to do is count.  For example, Dibs have 380 calories in a 26-piece serving.  Says so right on the box.  Counting out 26 Dibs is way easier than Googling "Calories+baked+potato" and then trying to figure out if your particular potato is small, medium, or large.  Besides, it takes forever to bake a potato.  Dibs are always ready. 

You probably won't even be hungry for lunch because of the stomachache you caused yourself at breakfast.  But if you are, here's what you do.  Drive through McDonald's.  McDonald's is your Diet Buddy.  That's because they have the calorie content listed right on the package of the food you are eating!  Let's look at the cheeseburger: 310 calories, and only 108 of 'em come from fat.  Ok, that's rad.


After 26 Dibs and one cheeseburger, you've only consumed 690 calories.  Congratulations!  Order a medium coke at 210 calories.  If by now you are feeling lightheaded and nauseated, go ahead and have a banana.  That's about an even hundred.  You're now at 1,000 calories.  For dinner, use a 113-calorie packet of hot cocoa mix and you've hit 1,113.  

How you choose to consume your remaining 200-ish calories is entirely up to you.  But here are some random facts.

• Tequila, 80-proof: 64 calories an ounce
• Jagermeister, 103 calories an ounce
• Blowjob (the drink, people!):144 calories, 2.5 ounces 

Cheers!


 


*I'm not kidding about this.  I have done this diet.  It fucking worked.  I was malnourished, but slender. Please don't do it.  Or if you do, don't sue me.
**Some assholes at the American College of Sports Medicine are now saying it's a minimum of 1200 calories a day for women, 1800 for men.  I hate men. 


References (I really do look this shit up.)
http://www.dreyers.com/brand/Dibs/flavorlisting.asp?b=1391 
http://nutrition.mcdonalds.com/nutritionexchange/ 
http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2005/10/25/business/food.583.1.jpg
http://caloriecount.about.com/calories-hot-cocoa-mix-i14194

From 
http://successelixir.net/procrastination-humor/




This is gonna be quick.  And way written bad.  'Cuz I'm in a hurry.  'Cuz I'm supposed to be doing something else.  But that something is so painful a task, I just keep separating myself from it.

I'm a few classes away from my second Master's degree.  And I'm starting to seriously wonder how I ever got this far in the first place.  I have a midterm due in 14 hours.  I haven't done the readings.  I don't even understand half the terms in the midterm assignment.  If I don't get up to pee, even one time, it will be tight.

I started to work on this thing three days ago.  Then I got a call to pick up my sick daughter, who, I should mention, never ever gets sick with a fever.  She picked that day, the one day I wasn't procrastinating, to blow out her internal thermostat.  Way to fuck up my shit, kid.

I restarted yesterday around 4pm.  Here are some things I've done since 4pm yester-evening, when I should've been studying...things I decided were of the utmost importance:

• Sprayed perfume in my hair.  I wanted to smell nice for myself.
• Sprayed air freshener around the house.  I want the house to smell nice for myself.
• Taken about 50 smoke breaks.
• Read several articles about the dumb-ass teenaged Olympians who thought it would be wise to party with cigars and beer ON the fucking Olympic ice.
• Did a little online banking that sooo could have waited.
• Put on a bra, which again, sooo could have waited.
• Did some stretching, which I almost never do: I was worried about poor circulation and varicose veins, given that I'd supposedly be sitting for a couple dozen hours to write this midterm.
• I.M'd my friends several times after telling them, "I'M GONNA BE OFF THE BLACKBERRY UNTIL FRIDAY AT MIDNIGHT!! DON'T WORRY WHEN I'M ABSENT FROM THE BLACKBERRY."
• Put in an emergency call to the babysitter, "Please help!  I have to lock myself away for the next 36 hours!"  Then when she arrived, I spent 45 minutes shootin' the shit with her.
• Just now, looked up how to spell "varicose" veins on google, and found ads for several vein treatment centers in the Los Angeles and Orange County areas.
• Created a list of "D" words on my BlackBerry Notepad, so that my blog description will be all the more clever.  Worse than that, I spent some time actually thinking up "D" words.
• I've taken vitamins, set up my desk with myriad caffeinated beverages, and eaten several times...because I don't want to get tired or dehydrated during this long process, when I will be working straight through.
• I've snapped at everyone who talks to me, "Don't interrupt me!  I'm working!"
• Fell asleep at 10pm last night after proclaiming to God and everyone, "I will not sleep until Friday at midnight!"