I Love the Smell of Smackdown in the Morning...

Well, no, not really.

Little Guy has a few obsessive peeves that just drive him into the stratosphere. One of them is the term "stop". There is no rhyme or reason to it, it just is---like the fact that he is scared to death of bare feet, even his own. Yeah, I know that's weird, but I recently read an article that the actor Will Smith (Independence Day, Ali, etc) has a bit of a bare foot phobia too, so at least he's in good company.

You can say "quit it", "don't do that", or "please refrain from..." and he'll---uh---stop whatever it is he's doing without a qualm. For some reason, the word "stop" really freaks him out.

If he hears it in passing, or even on the TV, it will sometimes send him into a frenzy of indignant questions.

"Are moms allowed to say stop? What about strangers? Would you hate me if I said stop? Would my teachers get mad at me? Are teachers allowed to say stop? Can I tell them not to say it? Would they hate me? Would you still love me? Why are those people saying stop on TV? Are they bad people? Are they mean people? Are they like Miss Trunchbowl (in the movie Matilda)? Why are they saying stop?"

Although Big Kid is doing really well right now (no aliens laying eggs in his digestive tract, no butt tumors, no rage attacks in his underwear out on the front lawn), he is still Big Kid. As I've said before, there IS no pill to treat "asshole". He likes tweaking on his little brother, just for the joy of being a bonehead.

What Big Kid doesn't seem comprehend yet is that his "little" brother is now as tall as he is (and still growing), and is a pretty freaking fit muscular dude. The "picker on-er" is now finding out the hard way that his former "pickeree" is able to kick his butt from here to next Friday if he has a mind to.

You'd think that he'd get the idea that it's not too smart to mess with the Little Guy.

But no. If you've read my blog for the last year or so, you know the history. If not, just trust me. Big Kid is like the Energizer Bunny. He doesn't learn from his mistakes. But he keeps going, and going and going.

I can lay out this scenario with my eyes shut and both hands tied behind my back because it happens at least twice a week.

Little Guy is such a huge Golden Girls fan that he often relays stories to us from school in the way the character Sophia Petrillo did. So here goes:

Picture this:

5:45 a.m. on a school morning in the kitchen of our home in the mountains. I'm stumbling around, trying to make high octane coffee.

Little Guy gets up, makes his bed, goes to the bathroom to wash, brush his hair and teeth, gets dressed, puts his backpack by the front door, puts his shoes on (he has a routine), puts his lunch money in his pocket, makes his breakfast and sits down to eat it at the breakfast bar.

I'm still waiting for my coffee to come out of this really crappy coffee maker I bought last year when my trusty Mr. Coffee (18 years old) finally pooped out and died. So at this point, I'm either in the bathroom or outside sneaking a cigarette.

Big Kid senses movement on his planet and gets up. Due to some of his meds, and his refusal to even TRY to get on a regular sleep schedule (he takes 2 naps during the day, so he's up and down during the night---and although we're trying to fix this---we're just grateful that he isn't breaking things and spitting on us), he has to join in.

He sits down next to Little Guy and the games begin.

"Whatcha eating?" he asks in a friendly voice.

Toast and yogurt.
"Is it good?"

Uhhuh.

"Can I have some?"

Go make your own.
"Can't I have just a bite?" Big Kid wheedles.

No!
"How about if I just take some?" He reaches for Little Guy's plate.

Leave. Me. Alone!
"Mom, Little Guy is making faces at me!"

"Stop antagonizing him", I warn. "Let him eat his breakfast in peace."

"I'm not doing anything! I can sit here if I want! He's making faces!"

"So don't look at him. I mean it. This will not end well."

"I can't help looking at him. He's making faces at me. Tell him to (uh oh---here's the word) STOP!"

Little Guy grinds his teeth.

"Cut it out, Big Kid. That's enough!"

"I'm not doing anything! I just told him to (here it comes again) STOP!"

"If you don't like it, get up and leave. There's no reason for you to be there, and Little Guy has to finish his breakfast and catch the bus!"

I turn my back on them to refill my coffee, and I can hear Big Kid chanting to Little Guy under his breath. "Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it."

I close my eyes because I know what's coming. Five...four...three...two....WHAM!!!!

"AIIIIGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! AAAIIIGHGHGHGHHGHGHH!!!!!!!!!"

I turn around.

Little Guy is placidly finishing his breakfast, not a hair out of place.

Big Kid has been knocked out of his chair and is laying on the floor holding his arm and screaming like a girl.

Smackdown!!

You'd think after getting his butt whooped twice a week he'd get the point sometime, wouldn't you?

:::sigh:::

P.S. I absolute don't advocate violence in any way, shape or form. Little Guy has never hit, pushed, pinched or kicked any other person except his brother and only in situations like these.

We talk about alternatives and how hitting is unacceptable, but Big Kid refuses to acknowledge that to a person who has autism words can have the physical effect of blows. Chanting "stop" over and over is akin to striking his little brother in his brother's mind.
To hear Big Kid tell it, he's an innocent victim who was minding his own business. At these times I seriously contemplate giving him a bunny-slipper enema myself. A hard one.