Really, Just Kill Me Now

Ohhhh, Ratzelfratzel, Farfignewgen, and just plain $#@%$$!!

When is summer vacation REALLY going to start? Arrrgghhh!

Big Kid's lease was up, and since there was a substantial increase in rent, he and Kitty decided that he was going to move in to her house. The one that she shares with her 86-year-old mother-in-law (Kitty is a widow).

Shares is a relative term, because Kitty essentially moved in with Big Kid at the apartment. She was there more often than she was at her own house.

The situation seems to be a good one, because MIL is becoming increasingly infirm, and it would be good to have someone there in case she fell or something (which has happened), it's close to Kitty's work, and the management won't call me up about complaints regarding Big Kid's music, because MIL is almost deaf as a post. He can rock on to his heart's content.

I haven't written a lot about him or them in this 8 months, because I still have mixed feelings about the whole relationship, and I didn't want to invade their privacy that much, because Big Kid knows I blog.

Frankly, I just don't give a rat's ass now. Seriously.

A month ago, Big Kid and I went to the leasing office to fill out the "intent to vacate" form, since I am the co-leasee with him. Big Kid and Kitty have had 30 days to pack up their crap and move it. We'd get a truck and move the big stuff.

Hubby and I weren't unreasonable. We knew that Kitty's house is full of furniture, and there wasn't a whole heck of a lot that they needed, ie; Big Kid's kitchen table and chairs, futon bed/couch (which dissassembles), assorted end tables etc could come back here and be stored in the basement.
What we DIDN'T know is that some other renter BSed them into taking HIS big-ass nasty greasy spoogy couch and easy chair so that HE didn't have to move it. They thought, "hey free furniture!", and not "oh shucks, if we leave this crap here, or can't move it, the complex will charge us 100.00 per item for disposal!" gah

Last Thursday, 5 days before the walkthrough, THD, Little Guy and I showed up as planned to start cleaning. Everything was supposed to be boxed---what needed to go to Kitty's in one part of the apartment, what needed to be stored at our place (like dishes and stuff) in another.

Practically nothing had been done. Of course, they'd taken the stuff that was immediately "important" to them---the TV, game system, stereo system, a few clothes....the place was knee-deep in crap. Literally.

So for 3 hours, we helped them pack...just shoveled sh*t into boxes and garbage bags. Of course, Kitty's car was so full of other crap that she couldn't actually MOVE anything back to her house.

Nothing like planning ahead, eh?

Left them with boxes, bags, etc to pack the rest of the stuff up in. Said we'd be back Sunday Morning (in 3 whole days) with the truck and trailer to move the big stuff and anything they wanted to store at our house.

Of course they didn't show up, and had done NOTHING to pack the rest of their crap up, so Hubby and the boys loaded everything they could. Including the fug couch and chair.

Their excuse?

Kitty: I had to work! (24 hours a day for 3 days, apparently).

Big Kid: I'm feeling too overwhelmed to lift a finger! And you got me into this apartment, it wasn't my idea, so it's your job to get me out of it! (ah yes, the old "clean up my mess, because nothing is my fault" argument again)

I am NOT sh*tting you.

They've had 30 days to do this. It wasn't a surprise. They aren't the victims they think they are. Really, the whine fest between the two of them could have used at least 3 pounds of cheese and crackers. And an orchestra of tiny violins.

The last two days, the boys and I have been cleaning and disinfecting the freaking apartment. Scrubbing walls, especially the petrified puke chunks splashed a foot and a half high around the toilet. Different basic colors, obviously from different times.

Big Kid, Kitty and friends had dyed their hair a few times over the months, but didn't bother to clean up after themselves. There was permanent hair dye stains in the carpet, in the heating vents, on the walls, and all over the brand-new linoleum floor that was installed in the walk-in closet just off the bathroom. Which now has to be paid for.

We've loaded the car up to move stuff up to our house in the mountains to be gone through later, multiple times.

THD has been suitably traumatized (since Little Guy assisted in moving Big Guy out of our house, he was inured). While cleaning out a cabinet, he found a half-gallon jug of milk with a loose lid and about 4 inches of curdled crap. And he found and packed Kitty's vibrator collection. Oh joy.

Pigs. The two of them live like pigs. It's as simple as that.

Had the walk-through today. Had planned to shampoo the carpets, but after we got the initial crap cleaned up off of them, we knew it was a lost cause.

The geniuses had tried to lift off some of the stains with bleach. Yes bleach. On a tan carpet.

But not that it mattered. There were over 50 carpet burns throughout the apartment from where they put their cigarettes out. Along with the hair dye stains. And several gunky spots that may have been milk-shakes. Or puke. It seems they puked a lot. The place certainly smelled like it.

So the damage is estimated around 800 dollars for the carpet and linoleum replacement. The complex didn't ding us on the cleaning because Little Guy, THD and I scrubbed the living crap out of every surface in and out. But of course, I'm going to have to pay it, because my name is on the lease and I don't want to mess up my credit.

Did Big Kid and Kitty call today to find out how it went? How much work we did? What the ultimate damages were?

No, they called to find out what time they could come tomorrow to pick up our monthly support check to pay for Big Kid's basic living expenses.

Anyone wanna take bets on how far my foot is going to implant itself up a couple of asses?

But hey, there is nothing in my name any longer associated with the kid. If he tries to rent again, there will be a positive reference for him. I will never, evah, sign my name to anything else.

He and Kitty can live like pigs in their own hollar, and deal with it on their own.

I'm really really tired and being a bad fellow blogger.

I simply can't keep up.

Be back to check up on you guys in a week or so. I'm sorry.

ATM

Nuns With Guns

I know I've been a woefully bad blogger as of late, and I hope to catch up with you all this weekend.

Let's just say that in the last week I found the birth family of one of our personal friends after he was able to walk into the courthouse where his adoption was finalized and walk out with a copy of his records, due to this new law change in Colorado I mentioned a couple of posts ago.

For those of you who weren't adopted, I can only say...this is huge. A truly life-altering event. There's some happy and sad in it----his birth parents have passed, but I found his siblings. He's digesting all the info and deciding whether to contact them or not.

I've also helped my Mom with some de-crapifying of her basement. When my step-dad passed a few years ago, he left behind several enormous collections. One of them was a collection of about 700 78rpm records that he collected as a young man.

Mom had a dealer give the collection an eyeball, and he offered her 10 cents a piece. With the economy being what it is, and with the requests (ahem, no comment, not me, I'd rather sell blowjobs for a 100 bucks a pop, and yes I'm that good, not that you were asking) some of her children and grandchildren are currently making on her in regards to funditude, I demanded that she let me go over them.

Heh. I've only waded through half the collection and have found about 40 records that have recently gone for amounts between $30 and $220 each on eBay. Feh. So yes, I've been knee-deep in dusty crap that hasn't seen the light of day in about 25 years too.

Which brings me to the current observation.

The other day, I took Big Kid to see his neuropsychiatrist. Since the office recently moved, I left extra time to find it, but it turned out to be a piece of cake. So we had to wait an additional 30 minutes or so because we were early.

The Doc's practice (there's about 6 docs and therapists there) specializes in patients who have somewhat severe neuropsychiatric issues, such as schizophrenia, MPD, rapid-cycling bi-polar, recovery from head injuries, etc. There have been a few times where while we were waiting, we've heard people screaming or having absolute fits behind closed doors.

While we were waiting, Big Kid and I watched the program "Galapagos" from cable on an absolutely incredible hi-def TV system. After a few minutes, Big Kid leaned over.

"Mom, take a look at the magazines in the rack on the wall. Isn't that weird?"

I hadn't noticed them at all, because normally, I bring a book if I have to wait.

There wasn't your uh "normal" waiting room fare there. You know, like People, Good Housekeeping, Time, etc.

There was Guns and Ammo, Weekend Sport Shooting (something like that), and some other magazine like Hunting for Fun amongst the National Geographic and Forbes.

Are we the only people who find that incredibly freaking nucking futso? I mean seriously?

It's like nuns with guns.

Devil 1, Angel 0

Ok, one last repost to get me through the week...yippee, it's almost over! Mentioning Kim at the Yellow Trash Diaries a week or so ago made me feel nostaligic for this oldie. Catch up to you in a few!

Ever have a moment when you feel like you have a little devil sitting on one shoulder and a little angel on the other arguing about whether or not you should do something?

It happens to me quite frequently.

I blame my adoption.

I clocked a lot of road miles this summer driving the Big Kid back and forth to college classes down in the city. I think I put more mileage on my car in the last two months than I have in the last 2 years.

Obviously I don't get out of our little town a lot.

On one of the interminable drives back home, the Big Kid was sitting in the back seat telling me what he learned that day in Biology class. It had been a really long day, and I was hot, exhausted, and fighting bumper to bumper tourista traffic back into the mountains.

Did you know that hairy knuckles are genetic?

"Really."

Yes, we all compared them in class. Mine are pretty hairy.

I looked at my hands on the steering wheel. "I don't have any hair on mine."

Does my dad have hairy knuckles?

"No." I would have definitely noticed THAT when we were married. Ew.

Well then how did I get them?

This was the moment I was talking about above. Angel on one side Devil on the other. What to do, what to do....

This time the little devil won.

"You can get hairy knuckles from excessive masturbation. Didn't your teacher tell you that?"

Are you SERIOUS????

"Well yeah, everybody knows that. And even worse, it'll make you grow hair on your palms."

NO WAY!!

I glance in the rear-view mirror.

He's scrutinizing the palms of his hands. It's taking everything I have not to bust out laughing.

Mom, are you sure?

"I'm surprised you didn't learn it in your sex-ed class back in high school. You must not have been paying attention that day."

He was pretty quiet the rest of the way home.

Later that night, I mention the conversation to Hubby (who chastised me for letting the little devil win this time), and I solemnly promised to clue the kid in before his next Biology class just in case he felt the need to mention it to his professor.

The next day, the Big Kid was bent over the bathroom sink examining his eyeballs.

Mom?

"What?"

When we went to get my eye exam a couple of months ago, was there a change in my contact prescription?

"No."

Are you sure?

As you can tell, this is a line he uses frequently.

"Yes."

Can I see it?

"What's wrong?"

I dunno. Everything just seems to be a little bit blurrier.

"Maybe it's time to change your 30-day contacts. Let's keep an 'eye' on it, shall we?" I chortled at my own lame humor.

I remarked on the eye thing to Hubby in passing. He turned bright red and looked sheepish.

Rut Row.

"What?" I asked. "What did you do?"

Big Kid had come to him early in the morning to ask him about hairy knuckles.

Did you know you can get hairy knuckles and palms from too much, you know....?

Hubby acknowledged that he was indeed in possession of that little tidbit of information.

"It can also make you go blind", he added.

Oh no.

We're going straight to hell for that one!

Thank goodness the kid has a sense of humor...

Melancholy Baby

We've spent this week prepping for and finally going to court yesterday on Big Kid's disability hearing. He was so nervous and scared that he burst into tears. My poor baby boy.

It was so very very hard to testify about why we had to make him move out and about his rage attacks when he's manic. Basically I had to say on the record what an unbelievable sh*thead he can be. It hurt him. It hurt me. We've tried to accentuate the positive all of Big Kid's life and to help him have good self-esteem. And to let him know---even at his worst---that we will always love him very much.

There's only so many times that someone can spit in your face and scream that you're a "f*cking c*nt" before it starts killing something inside you, I told the judge. I know it's his illness, but it has devastated our entire family.

Then I cried too.

He seemed sympathetic, and we have the medical affidavits from the doctors and therapist who have treated Big Kid for years. Plus an affirmative affidavit from their OWN expert. How a pencil pusher who has never met him could take a statement he made to his therapist over a year ago out of context to deny his original petition (his therapist asked Big Kid what he saw himself doing in 5 years, and the kid flippantly replied, "Laying on my mom's couch and playing video games" because he didn't want to discuss it) is baffling to me.

He's trying to live in his own place and is taking college courses. The point is that he is trying to make a life for himself. Unfortunately his health insurance will run out in a year, and if that happens, who knows what we'll do.

Keep your fingers crossed, would you?

xoxo

ATM

We Survived the Black Hole...

After 3 days of hard work, Little Guy and I are back in one piece!

Recovered from the Bat Cave:

8 lawn and leaf-sized bags full of garbage
5 tubs fully loaded with sundry crap
6 assorted boxes filled with the same
Hubby's Dress Belt
1 package new and unopened socks buried under stuff
2 packages new and unopened underwear buried under stuff
Miscellaneous tools that have inexplicably gone missing in the last 2 years
3 pairs of my good scissors
1 jar of mystery liquid that looks like pee. No I'm NOT going to open it and smell it.
About 4 days worth of meds scattered on the floor under the mess----some of which haven't been prescribed for at least a year.
2 broken fans
6 petrified dog turds in assorted dog-butt sizes
6 empty Slimfast cans, used as ashtrays
4 forks from our good flatware set
1 Henckels knife
3 spoons from our good set, cemented into 3 empty Haagen Daz cartons.
3 Haagen Daz carton lids, used as ashtrays
2 empty Febreeze spray bottles
3 glasses
2 coffee cups
Pieces from another coffee cup
1 lonely Nike shoe without a match
1 pair of Converse shoes still with the tags on from Xmas last year (the ones he just HAD to have!)
27 burn marks on the log walls and window sills, where the kid put out his cigarettes before throwing dozens of butts on the floor behind his bed

The good news?

No dead bodies
No meese nests

Whew

All that's left is to shampoo the carpets and paint the one non-log wall. Oh. And hang new curtains. Then my brand-new office/sewing room/craft space will be complete.

And if the kid ever wants to spend the night again?

He can sleep in the garage. P. I. G. Pig.

I need a nap.

xo

Meow

Ok, I know that I promised and promised to give you a rundown on Cougar Woman, who from now on, I'll just call Kitty.

Thanks for the idea and supportive comments! I like the name, and it fits!

Essentially, Hubby and I have decided that we're just going to go with the flow. I've written countless times about Big Kid and his quest to find companionship and how lonely he's been. You know how we've tried to find social skills groups or workshops to help with this over the last couple of years and come up dry.

He simply doesn't have, or hasn't been able to develop the skills to make and maintain meaningful relationships with females of his own age range. He doesn't "get" the "dance". He is unable to play the "game". He is COMPLETELY unable to interpret the multiple nuances involved with basic dating.

In other words, for example, if his girl asked, "Does my butt look big in these jeans?", he'd honestly say, "Your butt is absolutely enormous no matter what you wear. Are jeans supposed to make a difference?"

After that he won't get the chance to articulate that he adores her big butt and that's one of the things he likes most about her. At that point, he's been kicked to the curb. And has no idea why.

Kitty started growing on me awhile ago. Big Kid took a call from her in my office last month, and either she shouts on the phone or the volume was turned up high, but I could hear both sides.

Of course, I listened in shamelessly while pretending to play Spider Solitaire.

She asked him how his day was going. Asked him how his new meds were working and how he was feeling. Shared with him what she was doing that day. Asked him if he had ideas about what they might like to do/go/see on their next day together (which was in like two days).

No drama. No needy "me me me tell me how important/beautiful/special I am and how you can't live without me" or "I'm going to see a former boyfriend who might be better to ME so I can see how jellus it will make you" bullcrap. She really cares about him and what he's doing/feeling, just the way grown-ups do in a mature relationship.

Then she said, "You know, I've paid for our last couple of outings, and now it's your turn."

He said, "Well, I owe my mom a lot of money."

She said, "How much?"

He turned to me. "Mom, how much money do I owe you?"

18 dollars left from the last date with Kitty that you borrowed from us. 60 dollars from that concert you went to a couple of months ago. 80 dollars from all that crap you broke last week when you had your temper tantrum. But I'm willing to pay 50/50----50 percent towards your bill and 50 percent in cash to spend because we have a lot of stuff that needs to be done right away (had a pool party coming up).

Kitty said to him, "Sounds like you owe your folks a lot of money." No judgement. No, "Boy your parents are harsh and unfeeling cretins to get in the way of young love!"

Glumly, Big Kid replied, "They want me to pull weeds to earn it off." Hoping for a little "your parents are harsh and unfeeling cretins" sympathy support.

"Well it's a beautiful day outside. You better get cracking!"

Bless her heart.

Kitty was with her husband shortly out of high school and they were together for 26 years. They had a child who died of a congenital heart defect. Her husband was ill for the last 5 or so years of his life and they moved in with his elderly mother. Thinking he would get better and back to work, they filed for bankruptcy before the real medical bills started rolling in. She was the sole provider and caregiver for both of them, and has been working 2 jobs (one full, one part-time) to try to cover the remaining debt. Her mother-in-law has no other family (she's in her 80's), so Kitty continues to live with and care for her.

I don't know exactly what Kitty is getting out of this relationship. Before I met her, I had visions of some predatory old broad with a crepey neck looking for some mindless cabana boy ala Mad TV's Dixie Wentworth.

Kitty isn't like that at all. More like a throwback hippie-chick with the same kind of "live and let live" attitude from the era. She doesn't drink or do drugs. Maybe she feels like she wasted a lot of her life taking care of old sick people, and is looking to catch up on some of what she missed, but still has the need to nurture.

Like I said, I don't know.

All I know for sure is that she and Big Kid speak the same language, like the same music, movies and books. He's at ease with her, treats her respectfully, doesn't need a translator to figure out the "girl-speak" because she's absolutely direct in communicating, and she encourages but doesn't enable him.

Her parents don't approve and don't want to meet Big Kid at all. My own mother is quite shocked by it as well. And yeah, I'm not entirely comfortable with any of this, which is something Kitty and I have talked about and agree that this will have to continue to be a work in progress.

If she won't enthusiastically introduce herself as Big Kid's girlfriend to people like the leasing agents at the apartment complex while in my presence, then I won't visibly cringe when they suddenly realize she isn't joking.

I just know that I want my son to be happy, and I don't want to lose him. If we were totally closed off, as her parents are, he would absolutely take this as some dramatic "Romeo and Juliet" thing, because that's the way his mind works. I'm going to take the attitude that if it lasts, it lasts. If it doesn't, it doesn't.

If the world ended tomorrow, I would want my son to be able to say that he loved someone and was loved back. It's not up to me or anybody else to set the parameters of what is acceptable, as long as it's legal in at least 48 states (not talking about the other two where the men are bold and the sheep are scared).

What I like most about Kitty?

She's kind. She's a truly kind person.

After all the tough breaks he's been handed, kindness is something Big Kid needs.

So for right now, we're just going to roll with it.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

It's done. Finally done.

Big Kid is installed into his new apartment. My back is all cattywumpus again, and Hubby accidently broke his new cell phone, but it's alllllllll done.

We had to drag Big Kid---kicking and screaming---of course, to the new place, and he refused to help move his stuff. That was left to Hubby, Little Guy, myself and guess who----Cougar Woman. Yep. More on that later.

The squall continued until we jumped in our cars in the apartment parking lot and made a fast getaway.

Seriously. I am NOT kidding.

I spent the last week organizing and packing as much stuff as I could without actually going into that black hole he calls (called) his bedroom. Little Guy brought out all of the clothes and shoes that were piled up on the floor, and we sorted into what fitted, what didn't, what had holes, what still had life in it, etc. Then I handed in two tubs and a box of garbage bags and instructed the Big Kid to get at it. Put the stuff he was taking into one tub, the stuff he wanted stored into the other, and trash in the garbage bags.

Ha. He was "too busy" organizing his CDs. That took 2 days.

So my hourly mantra became, "Everything that is not packed and ready to go on Wednesday doesn't go unless you make your own arrangements to move it. The day after you leave I'm shoveling everything as is---including trash---into leftover tubs and storing them in the basement. If you come hunting for the one remote control or cord that you're missing, then you'll have to dig through the crap on your own."

I made lists of everything he could possibly need in his new place---some of which we could provide---some which would have to be purchased.

"How come you're sending me with the crappy towels (the ones he took to college which are perfectly fine)? How come I don't get to have the nice ones from the guest bathroom? Nobody ever uses those!"

You want nicer towels? Get a %$&*!! job!

He was poking through our flatware drawer. "How many of these do I get to take?"

None. We'll get you a starter set from Walmart.

"Walmart? But that stuff's cheap!"

You want something better? Get a *&%$!! job!

Seems like that turned into my secondary mantra for the week as well.

Sat him down with his budget, the grocery sales circular and the list of things he would need. Some of the stuff we could supplement with all crap I buy in bulk (condiments, salad dressing, cereal, coffee, etc), the rest he'd have to figure out what he could get for the rest of the month that would fit in his budget.

Everything he had left over would be his spending or "entertainment" money for the month, and I made it crystal clear that this well is dry and after paying all his bills for the new place, there would be nothing more coming from us until next month.

So we went shopping. Ground meat was on sale for 50% off, so I caved in and "fronted" him a little extra money from next month's budget. We bought about 30 lbs of ground beef, Italian sausage, ground turkey and ground pork. Cooked it all up with onions and peppers in batches---one for Italian, one for "regular" and one for Mexican (taco seasoning and beans, etc, added). Froze them in one-pound-sized increments flat in zip-locks. That way, if he wants tacos, or pasta, or Hamburger Helper, all he has to do is thaw a bag. Storing half of it in our freezer here, but it should last him for next month as well.

The apartment is surprisingly nice. It's right at the bottom of the mountain, so in a pinch, we could be there for him within 30 minutes barring bad weather and traffic. The complex has some kind of state contract (not section 8) that must provide affordable housing for every income bracket. Since we're only going month-to-month, there are some extra fees added, but I was amazed that it wasn't a sh*thole (like most of the month-to-month places). They have a couple of pools, 24-hour security and maintenance, a business center, rec center, etc.

He's got a one bedroom with a huge walk-in closet, and it comes with a fireplace and a microwave. The place is freshly painted, the carpets are almost brand-new. Only a couple of things to note on the damage report (permanent scuff marks on the linoleum in the kitchen and bath and a dent on the heating register). Unfortunately, the previous tenant must have had cats in the walk-in, because even freshly shampooed, the carpet in there smelt of cat pee. The management is going to pull the carpet out of there early next week and replace it with linoleum.

By the time we got everything moved in, Big Kid was working his way into a state. We had borrowed a truck, and the plan had been to hit all the Goodwill/thrift stores (there's a row of about 6 close by) to grab a couple of end tables, maybe a night-stand, and a small table to put his computer on. Oh, and some glasses and dishes. He refused.

Oh well. Good thing I thought to pack some paper plates and plastic cups.

We said "arrivaderch" and high-tailed it. After lugging an oak kitchen table/chairs, a couch, bed, dresser, computer/stereo/video gaming crap and multiple tubs of stuff up a flight of stairs while he basically sat on his behind, we'd all had enough already. We thanked Cougar Woman for her help and got the hell out of there.

Speaking of Cougar Woman----I have to say she's growing on me. I don't really want to call her CW any more, because it sounds kind of predatory, but I'm not sure how to refer to her in my blog. Any ideas? Will explain more soon.

Took the Kid about a day to realize that he kind of likes having his own place so far. Called to thank us last night.

.....and everything is so quiet.

Except in Little Guy's room. He's in there singing what has been become HIS mantra since yesterday afternoon.

"I'm free---to do what I want---any old time".......

Yikes. Better get that nipped in the bud fast. But he deserves a day or two to sing his head off. He's earned it.

Cutting the Apron Strings

We had a meeting with Big Kid's new neuropsych the other day. Although our family doc has been prescribing (last neuro was a diagnostician and couldn't prescribe meds), he wanted to have an outside consultation, because Big Kid isn't where he needs to be.

Some of it is his illness. Some of it is because he refuses to believe that we don't intend to allow him to squat in our home for the rest of his life and provide for his every need.

A lot of it is because he is resistant to being an active participant in his own life. Everything is done "to" him (he has no responsibility for whatever happens---like when he trips over the shoes he threw on the floor, it's the shoes' fault for getting in his way) or must be done "for" him (2 years of private rehabilitative driving lessons, and he's no closer to getting his license than he was then).

He's got applications out for part-time jobs, but refuses to call to follow-up on them. He got set up with a small thing where he could make pocket money sitting on his butt in front of the computer, but refuses to complete any of the work they ask him to do. Then he's angry because Little Guy has the money to buy CDs and DVDs and it's "unfair" and we're "favoring" him.

It's convenient to turn a blind eye to how Little Guy earns his money---by emptying the dishwasher, feeding the dogs, taking out the trash, pulling weeds, sweeping the deck. There's MORE than enough chores around here to earn a little cash.

grrrr.

Anyhoo, while I was visiting blogs the other night, I went over to catch up with my bud Ruth Dynamite, and she had a link to a sketch from Little Britain that I'd never seen before.

I laughed so hard that I cried. I showed it to Hubby and HE laughed so hard that he cried.

I showed it to Big Kid, and he said...."eww. That's gross. I don't get it."

He had a night to mull it over, and the next morning he said, "Were you trying to be sarcastic by showing that to me?"

Bahahahaha.

Not really safe for work or for viewing around small children:

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.

The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank

Dang, I miss Erma Bombeck. She had such a way with words.

The title of this post has been our theme for the last year when dealing with The Kid Who is Not Related to Us. He's back from his almost 6 weeks in California, and a lot of people have been asking how he is.

Bless you. :-)

For those who are coming in late, click on the tag at the bottom of the post if you dare. It's been a bumpy ride.

Last year, when the guys went to visit their Original Dad, I had one specific request.

"Don't tell Big Kid that he can come live with you."

There were several reasons for this.

1). Original Dad has a habit of making promises he doesn't follow through with (much less remember), and the obvious subsequent conclusion is that I either turn out to be "the bad guy" when those promises don't pan out, or the recipient of the explosive fallout from disappointment.

2). Thinking things through isn't one of Original Dad's strong points. He rarely has a plan past the initial idea.

So last summer, when the guys were visiting him, after I made the request, what happened?

Original Dad and his current wife sat the Big Kid down and offered to let him come live with them in a year (which would be NOW), if he "did well in school".

All of you who remember last year at this time, Big Kid had not yet gotten an official diagnosis of Bi-Polar disorder, wasn't stable on his meds, and I was bipping out over his health insurance, not to mention all the diseases he thought he was riddled with.

Oh, and my adventure with butt-spelunking. Mustn't forget that.

I called Original Dad and yelled at him: Are you insane? Are YOU going to pay for college (Big Kid didn't qualify for resident status)? Who's going to set him up with disability services? Are you going to facilitate? Are you going to make sure he gets to and from the campus (Big Kid doesn't drive and gets lost a block from the house, any house---in fact, during that visit, he got lost and some people called the cops on him for loitering)? If he doesn't go to college full time, are you going to pay $500+ a month in meds when he loses his insurance? Do you have a doctor set up? A neuropsych? A therapist?

Doh. Dad didn't think about any of that. And of course, the answer was no to all. So in his mind he retracted the offer, but forgot to inform Big Kid.

Anybody having a problem with the term Original Dad----all I can say is---Bite Me.

After we separated, my ex left the state for a job opportunity, which is completely understandable. Since then, although he's had several offers to return to our state, he's refused, due to other family issues that have nothing to do with his relationship with me or our children.

Without going into nitty gritties, let's just say that at best he's been an indifferent parent. He's gone 2 years at a time without seeing them, even though he has practically unlimited visitation.

Ex calls an average of once every 3 months unless we call him first. He hasn't sent the guys so much as a card for holidays or birthdays in about 7 years (but sometimes he remembers to call within a day or three).

Hubby has been to every football game, every IEP meeting, every school play, choir recital or awards ceremony in the last 13 years. He's financed the freight for specialists, camp, and private prep school for the Big Kid (we took out a second mortgage for that one). He's taken the guys camping, swimming, fishing, and ATVing. He's taken the Big Kid out at least 3 times a month for "Sushi and a Movie"----just a guys' night out for the two of them----for years. He's paid every dime of Big Kid's college education so far.

Original aka "Disney" Dad vs. the "actual" person doing the Dad Job? You do the math.

I know, I'm a little ticked off.

That said, for the last year, all we've heard from the Big Kid is: "I hate this town. I hate this house. I hate my life. This town sucks. This house sucks. School sucks. My life sucks. You suck. I can't wait for the summer so I can go to California and live with my REAL Dad."

And during our most desperate times during the past year, when Big Kid was flipping out and we called his dad as a last resort before calling emergency services, hoping he could talk some sense into the kid, all we got was, "I wouldn't allow him to behave that way in MY house"!

So we gave them their wish.

Big Kid thought life would be butterflies and ice cream cones in California.

His Original Dad thought he could do a better job of parenting.

HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!

They didn't last a week together before both were calling and begging us to let Big Kid come home early.

More in another post.

Here's some weirdness:

The Big Kid has always had my hair, which is silky and straight as a board.

Until now.

After 5-6 weeks in the humidity, his hair is now curly. He's been home a week, washed it a few times, and it's STILL curly.

It looks like that squirrel William Shatner wore on his head in T.J. Hooker.

How bizarre is that?

Quick! Call the Waambulance!

Be warned. You've entered the whine zone.

I can't do it. I simply can't do it.

I thought that taking a class or two during the summer semester would be enjoyable and a breeze if I didn't have Big Kid and his assignments to worry about. But now I've decided to withdraw and to take the summer off. I can get my money back, and it won't effect my grade point average. I've got the newest textbook, so I can retake it in the fall.

Making this decision is like lifting a huge weight off my back. Unbelievable!

A month or so ago, I wrote about how our doc took Big Kid off the stimulant meds because although they enabled him to focus for his ADHD, they exacerbated the manic part of his bi-polar disorder. Anybody new coming in, click on the tag at the bottom to catch up. Since the spring semester is over, we've tried different doses of Strattera (a non-stimulant treatment for ADHD) and it simply doesn't work.

It's been one long, hard year since he came home from college with the screaming meemies, and lately I've been called upon to perform duties that are well, frankly, pretty damn distasteful. Not butt-spelunking distasteful, but yucky on a different level.

The kid has little or no impulse control without the meds. He wants things, but in his world they should be delivered upon demand, before he does any actual work to earn them.

We go around and round and round on this issue. He really really doesn't seem to get the concept. I think he believes he has a shot of converting me to his world-view if he keeps at me long enough, and so the cycle is relentless.

Then again, he has some friends whose parents pay them to simply stay away, so I guess there is some basis for his belief.

When he's on meds for attention and impulse control, you can reason with him intellectually. When he's off, well---it's a crapshoot. The worst part is that it's difficult to tell how much of it is his illness, and how much of it is manipulation.

Seriously, if you haven't been there, you wouldn't believe it. Trying to put it into words is like trying to recite the Bill of Rights backwards. People like my mom, or Big Kid's granddad or his other dad truly believe that if I just said "no" that would nip this in the bud.

Ha. Saying "no" is just the beginning.

There is an endless song and dance that must be performed, and I could do it in my sleep. I could take it on the road to Branson, but my younger brother caught the show when he was here installing the bathroom, and he said it wasn't very entertaining.

Big Kid sees Little Guy getting new stuff and feels that life is unfair. Yet he selectively chooses to ignore the fact that Little Guy works his butt off. LG does extra things beyond his assigned chores----takes out the trash, weeds the garden, feeds the dogs, empties the dishwasher, etc to earn money for the things he wants. Just like in the real world. Big Guy thinks we're favoring Little Guy, and resents it.

So I've had to become the money monitor. I have to make sure there is no visible cash any where in the house, even in my bedroom. If I don't, it will be gone faster than I can say "I don't like Green Eggs and Ham."

He isn't even very smart about it---so it's difficult to tell if he's trying to get caught because he's bored and wants to stir the shit-pot or not.

If Hubby's money clip (which was left on the counter) only has a 20 and a 5 in it, think Hubby isn't going to notice that the 20 is suddenly missing? The kid doesn't go rooting around in my purse or drawers or anything, but if cash is visible, and nobody is around, he feels the impulse to put it in his pocket. When he gets caught he says "I found it."

As if our dining room table is a street corner and some stranger accidentally dropped a bill there next to the invoice for newspaper delivery. heh.

I've also had to become the cigarette police. If the kid has a pack, he will compulsively smoke one after another until they're gone. Then he'll complain of breathing problems, work himself into a panic attack, and REALLY have chest pains. I'll rush him down to the doc, who will point out the evils of smoking and tell me that if I can't get him to quit, I'll have to dole them out to him. WTF?

I've been thrust into the role of cupcake monitor as well. There are 8 cupcakes to a family pack. Kid says, "Can I have a cupcake?" I go to let the dogs in, come back and there are 3 left in the box. I buy a pre-made angel food cake (no fat) to make strawberry shortcake the next day, and when I wake up in the morning 7/8ths of it is gone. He so thoughtfully left one piece for someone else to enjoy.

I realize the other meds he takes make him crave sugar and carbs. He's packed on the weight since he came home last year, which makes him more depressed. His back hurts from carrying all the extra weight, and he doesn't feel like exercising. On the good side, I buy a lot of salad stuff and fruit, and he'll eat it if I put it in front of him. It's at night or early mornings when everyone else is asleep that he'll get up and consume everything and anything with sugar in the kitchen. What am I supposed to do? Put a padlock on the fridge when I go to bed?

He sees the commercials for Trim-spa, and actually thinks if he takes a pill he will wake up slim with no effort on his part (look what it did for Anna Nicole). He sees the commercial for NutraSystem (where Dan Marino basically says he couldn't see his own dick until he lost 30 lbs), and is convinced that if only we would plunk down 300 dollars for that tasty "special food", he will lose weight the quick and easy way. He'll eat two boxes of macaroni and cheese and chase it with a Slimfast shake and wonder why the Slimfast isn't working.

Point out that 2 boxes of mac and cheese are about 10 servings, and he thinks we're insane. Portion control? What's that?

So last week, we went to the doc's to let him know that the Strattera hasn't had the effect we'd hoped. I mention to the doc that the boys are leaving in 2 weeks to go visit their other dad, and he says, "Ok, we'll just keep things as they are and start back when he returns."

What??? Are you kidding me? The kid is actually scheduled to have a job and work out at his dad's this summer.

On one hand, I see the doc's point. The kid is stable (no more screaming in the front yard wearing nothing but his shorts), but I was hoping that he would be beyond simply stable at this point. He did well last semester in school on the stimulant meds, and we stopped because they made him a little more irritable at the end of the day. If he isn't here to be monitored, the doc doesn't want to prescribe anything that could de-stabilize him.

The Kid was disappointed. He hates struggling to maintain attention, and has been looking forward to getting a chance at earning his own money and having a taste of independence. I was disappointed, and had trouble containing tears.

But what can you do?

Near the end of the month, the guys are going out to the coast to visit their other dad. Hubby and I desperately need some time alone to rest and recharge and be a couple, and I can't tell you how much we're looking forward to this.

Little Guy will come home after 2 weeks. This has been a rough year for him too, and he deserves to have our undivided attention. Big Kid will come back after another month, hopefully ready to start back with driving school before the fall semester.

And me? I just won't know what to do with myself. But I'm sure I'll get used to it.

Sorry for the whine-fest. Hoping you'll find a much more relaxed Attila in another month. :-)

Garbage in, Garbage out...

Hey everybody!

I was hoping you'd help me with a project.

As most of my regular blog friends know, my oldest son, The Big Kid, AKA The Kid Who is Not Related to Us, had a breakdown last spring while he was away at college. He came home with the screaming meemies, certain that he had a heart condition, an invasive brain tumor, and butt crack cancer.

Anybody new coming in can read all about it by clicking on my handy dandy new label at the bottom of this post.

He's the main reason I've decided to go back to college (since he doesn't drive) and I've posted about our adventures sporadically.

In October, after extensive evaluations, he was diagnosed with rapid cycling Bi-Polar disorder. We've been working really hard to get him on a medication regimen that doesn't "dope" him up, but as most things neurological, it's an individual thing (no one-size-fits-all cure).

He has OCD and ADHD, and the medications normally used to treat this generally induce manic episodes. So while one medication keeps him from feeling the compulsion to scrub his hands until they're bleeding, he needs another to counter it.

It's been a balancing act, worthy of the Ringling Brothers' and Barnum and Bailey Circus!

Knock on wood, I'm grateful to say---he's doing really well with the online classes we decided to take this semester. He can pretty much work at his own pace, doesn't have to sit through endless lectures, or do BS work that is normally used to fill up space in a 2-day a week classroom setting. The format is helpful with his learning style, and he's gotten A's and B's in everything.

Of course it helps that I'm taking the same courses, keep track of the deadlines and beat him with my Bunny Slipper of Doom to get his assignments in on time. We've only got about 3-4 more classes we can take together before our separate majors diverge (he's going for a Criminal Justice degree, I'm getting my Paralegal certificate).

Which comes to my point.

Big Kid is still suffering a lot of sporadic depression. The meds are working as best they can, but he seems to get himself into a lot of unfortunate situations that would make the most positive person feel like slitting their wrists.

So we're trying to take a more aggressive holistic approach to mind/body/environment.

Last fall, in a class we took together---Public Speaking---we met a very charismatic fellow student who was very open about his struggle with Bi-Polar disorder. We talked with him between class periods in the quad and other times, and he said something really profound to the Big Kid. It flew over the kid's head, but it stayed with me.

And recently both the kid's doctor and therapist mentioned it, but in different terms.

The fellow student said, "Garbage in, Garbage out".

The first couple of speeches and class exercises The Big Kid used as his favorite topics were music. The bands he chose to focus on were beyond hard rock. We prefer to call it "the music of the devil". The fellow student noticed, because he'd been there, done that.

I remember when I was a teen and we waited for the folks to leave the house before blasting our stereos with Van Halen and the second 80's incarnation of the Rolling Stones. And the forgettable hair bands. I didn't want my kid to have to do that. So I allowed him some time to blast his crap in the house, in his room, during the day.

But after listening to 15-20 minutes of Mudvayne and Mushroomhead----I was ready for some freaking Ativan myself. The craptastic shit blasted over and over can induce a panic attack in the most ordinary of persons.

There is no discernable beat. There is no discernable melody. The only people who could dance to it is people who are in the midst of having seizures. WTF? No wonder the kid is feeling scattered!

The good thing is that The Kid actually is willing to listen to other forms of music. He likes Seal, and a couple of other artists. He's tired of feeling bad, and is willing to participate.

I'm trying to put together a disc of positive affirmation music for him to listen to when he's feeling depressed. This is what I've gotten off the top of my head:

Beautiful---Christina Agulara
You Gotta Be---Desiree
I Hope You Dance---Leanne Womack
Rubberband Man---The Spinners
Live Like You Were Dying---Tim McGraw
Thank You---Dido

That's all I got.

Anybody have something I can add?

Thanks!

Parenting and "The Package"

The other day, A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us (aka AKWINR) said to me, How come you're not being funny any more?

"What? You mean as in 'funny ha-ha' or 'funny-looking'?"

You're not being funny on your blog any more. You're sad or mad at stuff.

"Ahhh, well, I've been busy, and I was sick, and we've had a lot going on. My store of funny has been a little depleted lately."

Well then, why don't you write about my package?

"WHAT???"

You know, that funny thing about my package. The one you threatened to blog about. You have my permission to write about it.

Oy! Well...ok...it was pretty funny.

I suppose there comes a time similar conversations to the one below crop up when you're parenting boys.

At least I hope so. I don't want to be the only circus freak out there.

Some years ago, Little Guy went through a phase where he discovered the name for his buddy and went around saying, My penis, penis, penis! quite frequently. So hubby got him to substitute "The Unit" instead. At least in mixed company.

Fortunately, that phase didn't last long.

Now of course, every time a commercial comes on for the new TV Show "The Unit", Little Guy laughs his heinie off.

A little over a year ago, AKWINR took me aside to ask me if any of those male enhancement things he sees in spam emails really work.

He was feeling a little "inadequate" in that department. And since he has OCD, I knew this could get a little obsessive and he might actually try to buy some kind of pump or supplement...and who the heck knows what's in them?

I had to nip this in the bud, and fast.

I said, "No, they're scams. Just ask your dad."

I don't want to ask him. I'd be embarrassed.

"What about MY embarrassment? You think I want to be having this discussion?"

But you're my mom. If I can't ask you, who can I ask?

"Ok, I'm telling you right now. All that spam you see on the Internet about enlargement is a scam."

But, Mom, how do YOU know? It's endorsed by REAL DOCTORS!

(insert big eyeroll)

"If our family doc (who's a REAL DOCTOR too!) confirms what I'm saying, will you believe it?"

So I took him to the family doc, and they had a long private talk. Son is completely "normal" in every way.

The doc suggested I talk to him about how size isn't an indicator of a good lover, that there are techniques, and foreplay, and....

Whoa. Stop right there!

You have GOT to be sh*tting me! Boundaries, Bucko! Boundaries!

Why can't the kid read about it in Penthouse Forum, or wherever guys figured out that kind of stuff back in the day?

So I broke down bought the kid some books.

Lots of books. Sex For Dummies, and a couple of hip, trendy books about relationships. He sneered at me a little, but I know he read every word.

Alas, this wasn't the end of it. He wasn't satisfied with being "normal".

"Normal" wasn't good enough.

He wanted to wake up in the morning and be Long Dong Silver.

I said, "Who in the world ever gave you the idea that having sex with a-uh-unit that size would be pleasurable?"

My friends. You know, the girls. They all make comments about how they want big d*cks, and it makes me feel bad.

That's it. I have HAD IT!

Since when did girl talk become a co-ed sport? I know it's the day of Jerry Springer, but c'mon!

So I said, "The next time they're nasty enough to talk about it in front of you, forget about being a gentleman and just quote Tom Arnold."

Tom Arnold?

Yeah. When he and Roseanne got divorced, she made some inappropriate and classless public remarks about Tom's lack in the size department.

So he said, "Even a 747 looks small when it flies into the Grand Canyon."

**************

I know, I know---the sisterhood is going to revoke my membership card and burn me at the stake!

But I've got boys to raise.

I'm Still Here

I know I've been remiss in posting (and commenting on other blogs) lately.

Some of it has been because I've gone back to college with my older son, and have been trying to settle into a routine.

Most recently it's because I got the flu and it knocked me on my butt for a week or so.

But really, those are just secondary reasons.

Ever hear about the elephant in the living room? The one that everybody has to step around and tries to pretend isn't there?

That's me on my blog.

I haven't been able to write about it, because it's been too overwhelming. It's just been impossible to write about funny stuff because I've been as clogged up as a drain stuffed full of hair.

There's now a light at the end of the tunnel, and my son, aka The Kid Who Is Not Related To Us, gave me permission to write about it.

I first wrote about his problem in A Reality RX. The panic attacks were subsiding and we were able to find some humor in life in The Continuing Adventures....

Very shortly afterwards, near the end of the summer, the attacks started turning into something else. Zero to rage in 60 seconds. Or ultimate heart-wrenching despair. Over trivialities.

Big Kid's initial diagnosis in childhood was ADHD, OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and CAPD (Central Auditory Processing Disorder). None of it affected his cognitive ability, and with medication, behavior modification and some school helps (he processes information better when it's in print), he graduated with his class in high school and was accepted into college. Sure, there have been ups and downs---some big, some small, but things were really looking rosy for him.

He's been under regular care, and we all decided that he needed to have a full re-evaluation. Unfortunately, we were unable to get him on the schedule for months. In the meantime, his docs tried to get his moods stabilized with medication.

Those who've gone through the wringer with these issues know that there is no magic pill. There is no "one size fits all" treatment. A lot of it is trial and error to get the right medication and dosage.

One of the medications we tried to stabilize him with was supposed to last for 12 hours. It doesn't. And the rebound effect was horrific. His therapist called the paramedics one night (we had him on the phone) because Big Kid was screaming his head off in the front yard wearing nothing but his shorts.

Of course, the police and fire department had to show up as well, turning it into a complete three-ring circus.

The police showed up first (turns out a dispatcher had sent this out as a domestic violence call, which is NOT what the therapist called in), and by the time they got there, we had been able to get the kid to take his meds and calm down a bit. They thought he was high, searched him, kept asking him where he kept his drugs, threatened to arrest him, etc, and basically scared the hell out of him. And us.

This was NOT a good thing.

It took the paramedics explaining that some of the meds the kid was taking can have a narcotic-appearing effect to get them to back down. Of course, they wouldn't take OUR word for it, even when I showed them the prescriptions. arghh. I know they were doing their job (they were very courteous and professional), but it really didn't improve the situation.

Anyway, the evaluation is over and we got the results earlier in the week. The doctors think The Big Kid has developed bi-polar disorder and is rapid-cycling. The constant anxiety and panic attacks he had in the spring were a precursor. Unfortunately the medication that he was taking for ADHD and OCD exacerbates it.

On the bright side, he's been pretty stable for the last couple of weeks. On the not-so-bright side---the meds make him really tired and hungry. We're trying to dial them back slowly to a manageable dose with the least amount of side-effects.

If anyone has any experience with this, could you recommend some reading---anything informational with coping, diet and exercise tips would be great. I've been reading so many websites that it's hard to figure out what's crap and what's not.

I haven't been neglecting you all on purpose---things have just been a little, uh, nuts around the Attila house lately.

Thanks for all your continued good wishes!

My Kid is Top Drawer

Well, we're back from concerting.

The big kid came through it without any weird scars, holes or tattoos, although my older brother DID have to haul him out for some fresh air at some point. Too many hot, sweaty, stinky bodies slamming up against each other tends to make one a little nauseous.

I really debated with myself about whether or not to blog about this. Kevin pointed out that I've already blogged about the kid's butt once, so how could this be worse?

He's got a point.

Which brings me to:

Sharing a Hotel Room with Your College-age Son

Rule #1 Pack him a pair of jammies. Don't expect him to do it. Just pack them.

When the guys were little, they used to run around in their underoos. Little kids do that.

When they hit puberty, though, Management set up a new rule.

In the morning, all of the men in the house must put some pants on before coming into the kitchen.

There are some things I just don't need to see over my morning cup of coffee. The national news is bad enough.

There were complaints. I just woke up! Can't I get dressed AFTER I take a shower? It's not fair!

Fair, schmair. You don't see ME walking around with my naughty bits popping out all over the place.

I offered to sew the flies of their boxers shut for them. That went over like a lead balloon.

So, pants it is.

Anyway, after a very hot, very long drive to the big city, we checked into the hotel room. My brother wasn't due to pick up the big kid for a couple of hours, so he decided to take a nap.

I turned the air conditioner on (oh joy!) and the kid decided to use the facilities. He came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but his boxers. And flopped on the bed.

Flopped all OVER the bed.

MY EYES! MY EYES!

"Aiiighghghgh!!!! Put your jammy pants on!"

I didn't bring any.

"What?"

I didn't bring any.

"Then get under the blanket!"

It's too hot!

"Then put your pants back on, dammit! Show some consideration!"

C'mon Mom, at least I'm not sleeping naked!

Urk!

I did get to have my quiet evening alone, with my book and room service. Even got my bubble bath. It was heaven!

Big brother dropped the kid off around midnight. He was exhausted but had a great time.

This morning I got up bright and early, got packed and ready to go. I shook big kid's foot through the blanket.

"It's time to get up! We've got a long drive."

Nooooooooooo!!! He rolled over onto his stomach and pulled a pillow over his head. Five more minutes, please!!!!

Five minutes later I went to his bed and poked him. "C'mon, sleepyhead!"

No response.

So I pulled the blanket off of him.

And did a double-take.

There was a big gaping hole in the back of his boxers. Did he tear them while moshing?

No.

"Honey, did you know that your boxers are on backwards?"

Uh-huh.

What in the world? Was this some sort of teen-age fad that I'd never heard of?

"Is there some reason why you have them on backwards?"

His voice was muffled from under the pillow.

Geez, Mom, I was just trying to be considerate!

Oy.

The Flow of Current Events

The other day I was driving the big kid down the mountain to his summer college classes in the city. A beautiful scenic stretch which we go through lasts about 15 miles---with no strip malls, no 7-11s, no traffic lights. It's a great time to talk about all kinds of things.

This time he asked me a somewhat political question, and I was delighted that he was taking an interest in current events instead of listening to his iPod.

Politics is an issue we try to tread lightly around in our house. Except for Sunday mornings, when Hubby yells at the talking heads on the TV. Sometimes I stick around for the entertainment value, but usually I find something else to do.

Hubby and I have what you might call a mixed marriage, although we both have come closer to the middle after almost 14 years together.

What do you think of the President's veto on stem-cell research? asked son.

...and I was off to the races! With a captive audience, no less!

I yabbered on about how I didn't see why women who elect to have abortions (which are currently legal) couldn't donate the embryo to science if they wanted to, how I didn't understand why umbilical cord cells couldn't be utilized more (I would have donated ours), how there is a slippery slope and the worry that embryos would be created simply for tissue, yada yada yada.....

Mom? he interrupted in a serious voice. I really need to talk to you. Please don't be mad.

My stomach did about 5 flip-flops.

Oh no.

He's going to tell me that his college girlfriend is pregnant. Or she had an abortion. What happened to that industrial-sized box of condoms we bought him? Did he work his way through them? No wonder he did so poorly in class, the knucklehead! He was having sex when he was supposed to be studying. I'm going to KILL him for messing up his life this way!

Mom?

I gulped.

"What?" My voice sounded weak.

I really need to poop.

"WHAT?"

I need to go to the bathroom. Really bad.

I raced the last 7 miles down the mountain and pulled into the nearest convenience store.

"Here." I shoved a handful of dollar bills at him. "Buy something when you're done. You can't use their facilities for nothing." He crab-walked as quickly as he could manage into the building.

While waiting, I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn't get over how worked up I had become!

My very next thought was:

When he gets out here I AM GOING TO KILL HIM for scaring me like that!

The Continuing Adventures of A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us

The first time I brought you the story of A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us was in a post about condoms.

Since then, a couple of things have happened--he messed up his medications in college and came home a bit of a wreck.

Things have been progressing in a positive direction, but he's still having some anxiety and extreme obsessiveness about his health and every little ache or pain.

Luckily it's not a daily crisis any more, but it certainly has its moments.

Like last night.

This morning I had an email exchange with my friend Admiral Pooper, where I gave him a rough description of the event, and half-heartedly threatened to write a post about it.

He wrote back and said, "I think you just did. Who ELSE could this happen to?"

So below is a FICTIONALIZED account about A Kid Who Is Not Related To Us (aka AKWINR):

I've sunk to a new low. Last night I actually had to examine an ingrown hair next to a AKWINR's anus to reassure him it's not a tumor.

AKWINR: Mom, would you please please look at it?

Me (horrified): "No. Oh hell no! It's probably just a pimple."

AKWINR: Are you sure? Can you swear to me that it's not a tumor?

Me: "Of course not. I'm not a doctor. We can call HIM in the morning and have HIM look at it."

AKWINR: That's just great, Mom. I could die from this tonight and you don't even care. That's not good parenting.

[10 years of therapy and all he got out of it was the catchphrase "That's not good parenting".]

...Another 15 minutes of this back and forth...the kid just wore me down. He is absolutely relentless when he gets like this.

AKWINR: Mom, please, just look at it. I'll never get to sleep tonight because I'm scared.

Me (realizing that I'm in Borgland and resistance is futile): "Ok."

AKWINR pulls his pants down, IN THE LIVING ROOM, IN FRONT OF THE PICTURE WINDOW, IN FRONT OF GOD AND THE NEIGHBORS, bends over and sticks his Po-po in my face.

Me: "Jesus, when did your butt get so hairy?"

AKWINR: Moooooom! Can you see it?

Me: "No, I don't see anything. It's probably an ingrown hair. Your dad's butt was never this hairy. Maybe you're the undiscovered missing link!"

He pulls his cheeks apart: Well look closer!

Me: "Am I being Punk'd? Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Are you going to let off a howler in my face and run away laughing?"

AKWINR: Mooooom! Can you see it?

Me: "No."



















He lets go of one cheek and points: It's right there! Can you see it?

Me: "No. Are you sure you're not going to fart on me?"

AKWINR: Feel it, it's right there.

Me: "I AM NOT going to stick my finger up there! Are you out of your mind? Whoops, let me rephrase that...There is NO freaking way I'm going to spelunk your butt!"

AKWINR: Moooom! It hurts. Just tell me it's not a tumor!

So I take my finger and jab it into his butt cheek--NOT his crack--and say in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice: "It's not a toomah!"

AKWINR: Did you feel it?

Me (lying my head off): "Yes. It's a pimple. Go take a hot bath."

AKWINR (greatly relieved): Thanks Mom. Love you.

I bet Carol Brady or June Cleaver never had to do this. Bitches.

A Reality RX

Most of my posts have been written with the intent to be fun, funny, and indignant about public issues with some personal anecdotes thrown into the mix.

I didn't plan on ever posting about the following until I recently talked to a couple of other parents who are/have been in the same position.

If you're looking for fun or funny, this isn't the post for you. And it's a bit long.

I've posted a little bit about my oldest son, who just completed his first year of college. I've been allowed to mention the fact that he suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, only because the TV show Monk has made it sort of "cool".

I've tried to respect his privacy by not mentioning any of the other additional problems he has.

Please don't send me information on herbal remedies, or noni juices, or Christ-based-whip-him-with-a-switch cures. I'm completely and utterly uninterested. And I'd be offended that you'd think I was so ignorant.

Been there, done that (except for the whipping). I got the damn T-shirt already.

I wasted the first 6 months of Number One Son's life after he was diagnosed in Kindergarten (and no, not by a family practitioner, but by a team at a nationally-recognized developmental disability center attached to our Children's Hospital) by resisting any kind of pharmaceutical help.

I was an idiot, and I regret the wasted time.

He was on the barest minimum of meds for school until he reached puberty, and did very well.

Then he started scrubbing his hands until they were bleeding, and thought he heard us laughing at him through the walls, and plotting against him.

Turned out that the last was a reaction to the meds he had been taking, which were no longer effective. It took a while, with the help of a neuropsych, to find a new combination that worked for him.

Fast forward to this past year.

He was nervous about college, but excited and confident in himself.

Hubby and I are both realists, and we've both been to college.

Parties happen. All over the damn place.

We could say: "Don't EVER drink!!!" "Don't EVER try drugs!!"

Yeah. Sure. On our parental planet, maybe. At least we got him the industrial-size box of condoms.

We see it in the news---drinking, drugs, overdoses of alcohol, etc, on campuses everywhere.

We tried to enlist our family doctor, who would only say, "You're underage. It's against the law to drink. Drugs are bad. Go to church."

Thanks, Doc.

So we tried to be responsible and prepare him. We went over every med that he takes, with him.

When you're on meds, having one beer is like having three. Moderate yourself, and stay away from the hard stuff. If you plan on drinking, it might be a good idea NOT to take your night meds (Which aren't like Wellbutrin which has a cumulative effect. It wouldn't hurt him to skip one night's dose). Don't drive with anyone who's been drinking. We put extra money in your account for cab fare.

Had a friend who works for the pharmaceutical industry explain to son that with the combination of meds he takes, even trying Ecstasy might kill him. Thank heavens we had an "expert" tell him, since his dad and I are such relics that we can't be trusted to wipe our own butts even with a compass pointing the way.

Last month, I made a post about son's calling wondering if he had scalp cancer. With his OCD, it's not unusual for him to wonder/obsess about strange and unusual medical symptoms he reads up on when surfing the web. I put it down to stress from finals. And thought it was a bit humorous.

Then he called and wondered if he might have asthma. He was having trouble breathing.

He called and complained about a bump on his head.

Next he called wondering if he might have early-onset Parkinson's disease at 19, because he was having "happy feet".

I said, "write it all down, you've only got a week left, and we'll see the doc when you get home."

He got home and had a total mental breakdown. Complete with the screaming meemies.

He came bolting out of the shower because he was convinced that the bump on his head was a brain tumor that he could feel boring into his skull.

Panic attacks, paranoia... Pounding heart, trouble breathing, cold sweats....

As it turns out, this last semester, son "decided" that his meds exacerbated his normal shyness, and tried to wean himself off of them to feel more social.

Of course, home at spring break, he took his meds faithfully under the eye of his watchful mom. Then when he went back to school, he stopped taking them.

When he got home for summer vacation, he started taking them again, and completely freaked out.

So...on, then off, then on, then off, then on. It messed up his brain chemistry.

It's been a hard month for all of us. I've had to sleep on the living room floor next to him because he's afraid that he might die and be all alone.

We've had to have almost every test known to man performed, because he's convinced that he has cancer/a heart blockage/cystic fibrosis/an aneuryism/leukemia/an intestinal blockage/tumors/ulcers/absesses---everything except anal warts.

He's off the meds that have been beneficial for so many years.

Now he's only on an anti-anxiety med and an anti-psychotic. Had the bump on his head surgically removed yesterday (it was a sebaceous cyst), and had it dissected and analyzed to prove that it wasn't cancerous.

I thought we were alone in this (although I've had tremendous support from some of my friends). After hearing that this has happened to other students/parents, I felt I had to write something.

If your kid is in college, and responsible for taking his/her own meds for the first time, this scenario is really something that should be discussed. Just wanted to share and give you a head's up.

I'm only keeping this up for a limited time. If anyone wants to discuss this further, feel free to email me.

This is part of the reason why I've been taking a break.

I'm simply wiped out.