Whenever I hear Jenny McCarthy (and now Jim Carrey) cheer, "Autism is Preventable and Reversible!" I feel ill. I've seen the celeb-duo on TV, but become so nauseated & angry that I refuse to read the books. Why? Because these treatments are far more costly than the average family can afford, leaving parents with additional guilt & stress -- and that's if the treatments did work. But they don't.
Primarily, what the "prevent & reverse" Autism folks present is inconclusive. While McCarthy's son may have been helped by such things as diet & other alternative treatments, these results have not been consistently replicated with other children (or adults). After years of determinedly jumping through such hoops of hope, I was just that much more exhausted -- emotionally & financially.
In fact, those are the typically replicated result of attempts to follow claims of "reversing" Autism. Such guilt & stress produces not only even more exhausted parents, but children who are, due to changes in schedules, even more upset -- and, feeling they have failed again, children with even more damaged self-esteem.
And don't get me started on the anti-vaccines cry. Aside from the fact that there is no proof of a connection between vaccines and autism, McCarthy herself has been quoted as saying, "When it comes to vaccines we are operating as if our kids have a universal tolerance for them. We are acting like ONE SIZE FITS ALL. That is, at the very least, a huge improbability."
I'm not sure if that "no one-size-fits-all mentality" is irony coming from a woman talking about her child; or if that's in defense of the inability to replicate results from McCarthy's touted treatments.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Who Will Guide The Light?
CBS has canceled the 72 year old soap Guiding Light, the longest-running scripted program in broadcasting history, because CBS didn't care to face the realities of today's audience and their media viewing habits.
They did try a few things to "save" the show, most notably reducing the quality by switching to hand-held digital cameras, lights and microphones (which was horrid), but they sure didn't give it the old Springfield try.
It's a shame too. Guiding Light wasn't just a show I grew up with, it had produced some quality actors including Kevin Bacon, James Earl Jones, Cicely Tyson and Julianne Moore along the way -- a testament to the production quality it once had.
Sure, I'll admit I've stopped watching it. First I reduced to one or two times a week because I work at home (emphasis on work at home) and my day is not conducive to breaks scheduled around TV shows. Once the digital crap hit, I was less interested in making the effort. And the more time you spend away from soaps, the more effort you need to put into figuring them out. So you resist.
Some would argue that Guiding Light has a smaller audience because it's an older audience; I disagree. I bet the audience is older -- but that's the very reason why it should succeed! If only producers would work to serve the audience.
The number one thing that hurts the show is the time. Why not consider something that people can commit to? Put it on later, when I can sit and watch it -- and that's not right before milk & cookie time. I'm struggling to get my stuff done for when the kids come home. And five days a week? My sister who travels isn't going to come back from Hong Kong and watch 2 - 6 weeks of any TiVo'd shows. But prime time soaps thrive. So why not consider completely different scheduling based on the realities of working families? Hey, that Friday night death slot might just be the ticket... We're home. Nothing else is on... especially if Dollhouse and The Sarah Connor Chronicles will be leaving us.
According to The New York Times:
I'm available for consultation.
They did try a few things to "save" the show, most notably reducing the quality by switching to hand-held digital cameras, lights and microphones (which was horrid), but they sure didn't give it the old Springfield try.
It's a shame too. Guiding Light wasn't just a show I grew up with, it had produced some quality actors including Kevin Bacon, James Earl Jones, Cicely Tyson and Julianne Moore along the way -- a testament to the production quality it once had.
Sure, I'll admit I've stopped watching it. First I reduced to one or two times a week because I work at home (emphasis on work at home) and my day is not conducive to breaks scheduled around TV shows. Once the digital crap hit, I was less interested in making the effort. And the more time you spend away from soaps, the more effort you need to put into figuring them out. So you resist.
Some would argue that Guiding Light has a smaller audience because it's an older audience; I disagree. I bet the audience is older -- but that's the very reason why it should succeed! If only producers would work to serve the audience.
The number one thing that hurts the show is the time. Why not consider something that people can commit to? Put it on later, when I can sit and watch it -- and that's not right before milk & cookie time. I'm struggling to get my stuff done for when the kids come home. And five days a week? My sister who travels isn't going to come back from Hong Kong and watch 2 - 6 weeks of any TiVo'd shows. But prime time soaps thrive. So why not consider completely different scheduling based on the realities of working families? Hey, that Friday night death slot might just be the ticket... We're home. Nothing else is on... especially if Dollhouse and The Sarah Connor Chronicles will be leaving us.
According to The New York Times:
A spokeswoman for P.&G., Jeannie Tharrington, said the company would seek to place “Guiding Light” elsewhere. “We’re looking at all our options,” she said. “This show started as a 15-minute radio show, and then it was a half-hour television show, so it has adapted over the years.”I hope P&G at least puts forth effort to really find ways to adopt and adapt the show to today's audiences. We're here; we're just not living the lives our moms or even we ourselves once did.
I'm available for consultation.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Controlling Children's Cell Phone & Media Use
I'll be honest, this post is prompted by a contest sponsored by Kajeet.com (discovered via a RAMBO Alert from TwitterMoms.com). They wanted mom bloggers to give "5 tips for managing cell phone use by your kids."
So this is not what Kajeet really wanted, but it's what I want to say.
I don't want to kiss a phone goodbye; as a mom who lost her son in an ugly custody battle to her abuser and now lives 10 hours away from him, it would be great to give him a phone (with the wallet system Kajeet has, it would be even cooler!) so that we could talk on my dime anytime.
Saying all that is really ugly. But it's a sad reality for countless numbers of moms in similar situations -- as well as other parents of divorce with children far away. So someone has to say it.
Destiny has not shown the maturity we as parents feel warrants her own personal phone; until she matures enough to handle the responsibility of a phone, she uses our phones. This makes perfect sense to us because responsibilities are earned, so no matter how many of her peers have them.
And her peers have them.
Cell phones, multiple game "stations", iPods, unmonitored internet usage, televisions & DVD players in their rooms...
Don't get me wrong, the kids have plenty of "things" -- including their own individual record players (because they all collect vinyl!), boom boxes, radios, disc-players... That's because music isn't as "dumbing" as visual entertainment. They can listen all they want. But when it comes to "screens," we limit the number of hours a day they may sit in front of them.
"Screens" (or "idiot boxes") are TVs (the programming and electronic devices which display on their screens, including movies and PlayStation or other video games) and computers (unless they are writing or otherwise creating on it; games and "surfing" time count as passive, mindless entertainment).
We limit them to two hours a day on school days; three hours on non-school days. Yes, that includes summer vacation.
And, they are monitored. They are never on the internet without us in the room or within eyesight of the monitor. They are not allowed to watch shows or movies which we have not screened & OK'd or are not present to watch with them.
We do this because we love them.
We do this to encourage their own creativity.
We do this to encourage them to move and play.
We do this to be sure that if/when questionable material arises, we are there to answer questions, point out the inaccuracies Vs facts, quell fears & anxieties, find out what excites & interests them, have conversations with them about what they are absorbing -- and just plain turn it off, if need be.
So I guess if I were try to conform to the contest rules, I would say that the best way to really manage kids' use of cell phones is to do the same thing: limit the amount of time they actually hold it. Or to use a feature like Kajeet's TimeManager, and limit the phone's use for text, pics & calls to times when we are present to monitor them &/or times when calls are warranted ("Come pick me up, please!")
How do you keep your kids safe from bullying, inappropriate content, and other hazards, and how do you maintain a budget for the use of the phone?And it hit me that (1) I'd like a phone for my son so that his dad would stop being so cheap about phone calls, but (2) I have no clue as to the answers because (3) we've had horrible luck with Des, who is 4 years older, and her cell phone use to the extent that we've taken it away, and that (4) we are hard-core parental controllers of the media & technology our kids use (which brings me to point 5 which is that ages ago I promised to discuss how we limit our families use of "screens" and passive entertainment).
So this is not what Kajeet really wanted, but it's what I want to say.
I don't want to kiss a phone goodbye; as a mom who lost her son in an ugly custody battle to her abuser and now lives 10 hours away from him, it would be great to give him a phone (with the wallet system Kajeet has, it would be even cooler!) so that we could talk on my dime anytime.
Saying all that is really ugly. But it's a sad reality for countless numbers of moms in similar situations -- as well as other parents of divorce with children far away. So someone has to say it.
Destiny has not shown the maturity we as parents feel warrants her own personal phone; until she matures enough to handle the responsibility of a phone, she uses our phones. This makes perfect sense to us because responsibilities are earned, so no matter how many of her peers have them.
And her peers have them.
Cell phones, multiple game "stations", iPods, unmonitored internet usage, televisions & DVD players in their rooms...
Don't get me wrong, the kids have plenty of "things" -- including their own individual record players (because they all collect vinyl!), boom boxes, radios, disc-players... That's because music isn't as "dumbing" as visual entertainment. They can listen all they want. But when it comes to "screens," we limit the number of hours a day they may sit in front of them.
"Screens" (or "idiot boxes") are TVs (the programming and electronic devices which display on their screens, including movies and PlayStation or other video games) and computers (unless they are writing or otherwise creating on it; games and "surfing" time count as passive, mindless entertainment).
We limit them to two hours a day on school days; three hours on non-school days. Yes, that includes summer vacation.
And, they are monitored. They are never on the internet without us in the room or within eyesight of the monitor. They are not allowed to watch shows or movies which we have not screened & OK'd or are not present to watch with them.
We do this because we love them.
We do this to encourage their own creativity.
We do this to encourage them to move and play.
We do this to be sure that if/when questionable material arises, we are there to answer questions, point out the inaccuracies Vs facts, quell fears & anxieties, find out what excites & interests them, have conversations with them about what they are absorbing -- and just plain turn it off, if need be.
So I guess if I were try to conform to the contest rules, I would say that the best way to really manage kids' use of cell phones is to do the same thing: limit the amount of time they actually hold it. Or to use a feature like Kajeet's TimeManager, and limit the phone's use for text, pics & calls to times when we are present to monitor them &/or times when calls are warranted ("Come pick me up, please!")
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Bra Nazi: I Wish I Was Just Some Ultra-Conservative Worry-Wart, But I'm Not
It began with Des' mom and her grandma (hubby's mom) buying Des very short skirts and high-heeled black boots because they think it's a cool look (for her?!). When I met Des at age six, she had plenty of those outfits. But they made me cringe so badly (I've written before about how I feel about inappropriately dressing children), that I told hubby I would not appear in public with her dressed like that and by the 5th grade it was forbidden because it was inappropriate.
Des, now 12, is obsessed with wearing black. It's not quite the typical "goth" thing, more of a rock-n-roll-slash-biker rebellion dealio, a carry-over from those "cool" outfits, I suppose. (Those boots are still popular with her, but now she only wears them with pants or long skirts; and Des is now too prudish to wear short skirts unless her 80's leggings are underneath them.) But the fact is, Des will do just about anything to wear her black clothes, including picking them out of the dirty laundry pile. If she can't do that, she'll at least wear a black bra under a white t-shirt.
I've repeatedly told Destiny that she cannot wear her black bras under white or other light clothing; it shows thru. Each and every time I get a, "Oh, I didn't know." Which one might be inclined to believe if they weren't the one telling her once a week -- and if the kid weren't extremely weirded-out by anything remotely "risque". But after so many times, it's infuriating.
Now oddities about Des aside, and leaving out the "typical power struggles of the pre-teen in Western culture" conversation, we must first deal with the fact that I am step-mom.
As step-mom, it's only "natural" (and I say this because what we call "natural" and "normal" regarding the role of the step-parent in this culture is mainly out-of-whack because as a society we allow and perpetuate it), that she test me. Many times that I've pointed out Des' visible black bra her father has been present -- but said nothing. What's more, he's been the first to see her, send her off to school, without, apparently, noticing it. So understandably she might think that the lack of comment of disapproval on his part is approval by omission, and I, by comparison, am just noise she can ignore.
I needed to get hubby to support my statements.
Step one was to educate him about how serious this was. Not just giving Des the impression that she could divide and conquer, or ignore what I say, but because I see this "bra thing," like the short skirts and boots, to be a safety issue.
He doesn't get it because he's never had to live like a woman.
The fact is that as much as I wish it otherwise, girls and women are held responsible for the actions of boys and men.
I'm not (only) talking about date rape ("She went on a date with him, didn't she?" "Why else would she let him in her apartment?" "She was dating him for so long... it can't be rape."), or "real rape" ("What was she wearing?" "What was she doing in that parking lot?" "What is her job?") -- and don't even get me started talking about domestic violence!
And I'm not some alarmist prude either, imagining every boy, man-child and man as a sex predator or abuser. I'm just talking about the facts.
Ever since Allie was in middle school, continuing through high school and Des' start of middle school, I've been getting those notices about how girls should and shouldn't dress at school -- specifically stating things such as no visible bra straps protruding from or sliding out beneath the straps of tank tops. Girls with blossoming buds and young women with full breasts are monitored for the "snugness" of their t-shirts.
Why?
Because the boys in class could be distracted.
We can't have boys running around distracted! And we certainly can't teach them to control themselves. No,no, no. It would be much better if we taught the females, the tempting sinful devils that they are, to behave in ways which do not elicit problematic male responses.
So, like Muslim women who must pray at the back of the mosque so that their prostrated backsides won't distract men from their God, girls and young women here in the US must mind their place and their dress so that boys and young men will not have to be responsible for their own thoughts and actions.
I certainly don't think a young girl needs to display her thong or otherwise dress like a mature sexualized adult, but I am completely against this notion that females are the ones responsible for male thought and action. It makes me furious!
But...
Knowing that this is the world we live in...
That the girl with the showing bra straps is the one who will be sent home -- not the leering boy.
That should some young man touch her, she will not only be the one abused but she will have to defend herself, her actions & her dress -- and, no matter the outcome, she will be the one with a ruined reputation.
Knowing all this, it would be damn-near criminal of me not to protect her from the fall-out of a visible bra.
It's not right, it's not fair; but it's what happens in our world.
And so Des cannot dress as she likes. She (and anyone else) can hate me for it for the rest of her life. But it will be a safer one.
Des, now 12, is obsessed with wearing black. It's not quite the typical "goth" thing, more of a rock-n-roll-slash-biker rebellion dealio, a carry-over from those "cool" outfits, I suppose. (Those boots are still popular with her, but now she only wears them with pants or long skirts; and Des is now too prudish to wear short skirts unless her 80's leggings are underneath them.) But the fact is, Des will do just about anything to wear her black clothes, including picking them out of the dirty laundry pile. If she can't do that, she'll at least wear a black bra under a white t-shirt.
I've repeatedly told Destiny that she cannot wear her black bras under white or other light clothing; it shows thru. Each and every time I get a, "Oh, I didn't know." Which one might be inclined to believe if they weren't the one telling her once a week -- and if the kid weren't extremely weirded-out by anything remotely "risque". But after so many times, it's infuriating.
Now oddities about Des aside, and leaving out the "typical power struggles of the pre-teen in Western culture" conversation, we must first deal with the fact that I am step-mom.
As step-mom, it's only "natural" (and I say this because what we call "natural" and "normal" regarding the role of the step-parent in this culture is mainly out-of-whack because as a society we allow and perpetuate it), that she test me. Many times that I've pointed out Des' visible black bra her father has been present -- but said nothing. What's more, he's been the first to see her, send her off to school, without, apparently, noticing it. So understandably she might think that the lack of comment of disapproval on his part is approval by omission, and I, by comparison, am just noise she can ignore.
I needed to get hubby to support my statements.
Step one was to educate him about how serious this was. Not just giving Des the impression that she could divide and conquer, or ignore what I say, but because I see this "bra thing," like the short skirts and boots, to be a safety issue.
He doesn't get it because he's never had to live like a woman.
The fact is that as much as I wish it otherwise, girls and women are held responsible for the actions of boys and men.
I'm not (only) talking about date rape ("She went on a date with him, didn't she?" "Why else would she let him in her apartment?" "She was dating him for so long... it can't be rape."), or "real rape" ("What was she wearing?" "What was she doing in that parking lot?" "What is her job?") -- and don't even get me started talking about domestic violence!
And I'm not some alarmist prude either, imagining every boy, man-child and man as a sex predator or abuser. I'm just talking about the facts.
Ever since Allie was in middle school, continuing through high school and Des' start of middle school, I've been getting those notices about how girls should and shouldn't dress at school -- specifically stating things such as no visible bra straps protruding from or sliding out beneath the straps of tank tops. Girls with blossoming buds and young women with full breasts are monitored for the "snugness" of their t-shirts.
Why?
Because the boys in class could be distracted.
We can't have boys running around distracted! And we certainly can't teach them to control themselves. No,no, no. It would be much better if we taught the females, the tempting sinful devils that they are, to behave in ways which do not elicit problematic male responses.
So, like Muslim women who must pray at the back of the mosque so that their prostrated backsides won't distract men from their God, girls and young women here in the US must mind their place and their dress so that boys and young men will not have to be responsible for their own thoughts and actions.
I certainly don't think a young girl needs to display her thong or otherwise dress like a mature sexualized adult, but I am completely against this notion that females are the ones responsible for male thought and action. It makes me furious!
But...
Knowing that this is the world we live in...
That the girl with the showing bra straps is the one who will be sent home -- not the leering boy.
That should some young man touch her, she will not only be the one abused but she will have to defend herself, her actions & her dress -- and, no matter the outcome, she will be the one with a ruined reputation.
Knowing all this, it would be damn-near criminal of me not to protect her from the fall-out of a visible bra.
It's not right, it's not fair; but it's what happens in our world.
And so Des cannot dress as she likes. She (and anyone else) can hate me for it for the rest of her life. But it will be a safer one.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
And What Did You Do During The Flood Of 2009?
Unless you've been living under a (dry) rock, you've probably heard about the flood situation here in Fargo; now we wait to see what the melting snow (so beautiful as it fell; see photos below) will mean for a second crest this month.
But what you don't know, is what that week was like for us.
Aside from the worries about the house & basement, the closed roads (oh, and the limited stock on grocery store shelves -- hello, expensive bread!), lost pay for hubby as non-essential businesses were closed , schools closed for about 10 days (which means momma isn't just home with kids who perform the usual work distractions, but are asking you all sorts of flood and science related questions -- yup, including "what causes global warming" and "will the earth crash into the sun) -- and then the additional struggle of snow-filled streets which would have to wait to be plowed because city workers were busy with the flood situation -- we had special troubles of our own.
The week before the historical crest of the Red River, we went to Wisconsin to get my son. His spring break does not line up with the local school break, so we took one of the days the girls were off school to drive to Milwaukee, spend a day with my parents, then drive back with Hunter who would then spend his week of vacation with us here in Fargo. That part went rather well, considering.
On Sunday, we all packed into "my van", named Plum Luck, and were to follow my parents in their van out of their driveway to a local restaurant for breakfast before we left for our 10 hour drive back to Fargo. Plum Luck backed up, but as hubby threw her into drive, she jerked three times and then refused to move. Not forwards, not backwards; no movement at all.
I got out, walked to the driver's side of my folks' van, shaking my head in that near-hysterical- sort of confidence that shock mixed with "this is my life" brings, and told my dad that we weren't moving. Dad & hubby played a bit with the van until my mom, hungry, said, "Let's all go get breakfast and talk about the options."
So we all piled into their van & went to eat.
But neither our van, nor our situation, was mentioned.
When we returned to my folks' house, there was more poking about in Plum Luck's engine etc., and then discussion of the options.
There were few of them. Mainly because we were down to one working van to begin with. Ookla, the big 70's porno conversion van, had been stuck for weeks with what was deemed to be a small repair -- but due to so much snow, cold temps, and no garage (let alone a heated one), hubby obviously could not get under it to see much of anything. So it sat while we operated our lives with one vehicle.
So while we could have taken a bus back to Fargo, or, as my folks' offered, have them drive us back, we would have been stuck once there. Hubby thought maybe we could borrow his dad's car and get Ookla fixed -- but I knew better. No disrespect to hubby's abilities, but "car repairs" are not in the easzy-peazy slam-dunk-fix category. Plus, if my life has taught me anything, it's that when it rains it pours. I wasn't going to bank on a repaired Ookla.
My parents loaned us my mom's van -- very nice of them. Especially as when, during the wacky week of flood-watching, hubby was able to get under Ookla, it (so far) has proved to be anything but an eazy-peazy diagnosis, let alone fix. So at least we had one reliable vehicle for the week and for the return to trip to Wisconsin to return Hunter.
Now Plum Luck, as it turns out, needed a new transmission; that price tag was way more than the van was worth. So while we had a van to get to Wisconsin, we would be stuck there. Or we'd have to make the trip by bus, have my folks drive us home, or get a rental. Once at home, we'd be without a vehicle.
Unless we drove two vehicles to Wisconsin. We thought about borrowing hubby's dad's car, but that would be a short term solution to a long(er) term problem. So we figured we'd need to buy a new (to us) vehicle.
So there we were, in the middle of both a flood and a blizzard, looking for a car -- make that a used van that would hack the road trips. And one that we can afford. And get financed post-bankruptcy.
Options were few, but the solution was Big Lot. We got a new-to-us van (dubbed "Star").
Because our drive was full (the not-moving Ookla and my mom's van) and due to the snow emergency (no parking on the street), we left the van there, intending to pick it up the next evening and park it at my father-in-law's house for 36 hours until we would leave for Wisconsin (Grandpa Dave watches our dogs at his house, so we'd be going there anyway).
But the evening we went to pick up the van was not only blizzard conditions, but due to the flood there were only two bridges open into Moorhead -- and few ways to get there. We sat in the van for over an hour and didn't even get to close to the bridge. So we called, said we'd be there the next morning.
Late that night hubby & decided that we'd leave to get the van -- and keep driving. We'd get the hell out of Dodge and go to Wisconsin a day early.
We got up early that still-snowing-morning. Each of us had less than six hours of sleep, but by 8:30 AM hubby had called Des' mom (to change her weekend visitation), I had updated my folks that four of us would be coming a day early, and we had dropped the dogs off at Grandpa's.
We magically got to and over the bridge quickly & easily and picked up "Star."
I was driving with Hunter and Des was with her father in grandma's van. I pulled out of the Big Lot lot, following hubby, and "ding" went the gas gage. I phoned hubby and we agreed to meet at the gas station a few blocks away.
We each filled our tanks, went inside to pay. I returned to Star and Hunter told me my cell had rung. I picked up the phone and looked at the missed call info. I didn't recognize the number, so I dialed it. While it rang, I looked out the front windshield. I saw hubby driving toward the road to I-94 -- and I saw a huge crack on the windshield.
Now when we test drove the van (something which excited both Des & Hunter to the point you'd think they never been on the 10-12 hour drives to and from Wisconsin), I noticed the "ding" on the windshield, on the passenger's side, near the center. I hadn't complained because prior to the test drive, we'd been informed of repairs they'd made on the van and among them was "filled windshield repair," so I just noted, "Ah, that's where it was."
But now, it had spread -- to this freakish long-horn, bicycle-handlebars, thing.
My jaw dropped just as the phone was answered.
It was Tammy, Allie's case manager for her apartment staff, would we pick her up? They were evacuating the apartment while they could control an evacuation -- and while the building was (likely) safe, there would be no staffing. I explained that we were leaving town, they could contact Grandpa Dave. But when I hung up...
Oh well, no time to reconsider, my phone was ringing again. It was hubby, where was I?
I babbled about a windshield and Tammy's call. He said to stay put, he'd drive back to meet me.
When he arrived back at the gas station, he took one look at the windshield and said, "What did you do?" ARG!
It was a normal enough question -- an automatic one, actually. The next thing out of his mouth was something about the fill not working. We stared at each other in silence for a second.
The he suggested he'd drive and get Allie while I went back to Big Lot and had them look at the windshield.
So off he went, back over one bridge (and then facing a potential problem getting back over again on the other) while I franticly called Allie, to have her be packed and ready. But Allie didn't answer. I called home & cell, repeatedly. Soon I was back at Big Lot, where upon being greeted at the door, I began to verbally vomit The Windshield Story in a rush of adrenaline.
"No problem," they said, they'd take care of it, replace the windshield when we returned.
I was stupefied. It couldn't be that simple; God was playing dodgeball with me -- the proof was on my windshield. But it was that simple.
Now Hunter & I just had to wait for the rest of the family to get here with Allie -- Allie! Oh my God, I had to get a hold of Allie! I called. I kept calling until I got her. She was barely awake and here I was barking her to pack her bags for a trip to Wisconsin. This Auspie doesn't do "unplanned" very well -- but she did very well.
Now the car salesman knocked at the window -- were we OK? So I had to tell him the story of the windshield and why we were waiting for hubby... Oh my God, hubby! I'd better tell him that Allie had just been told, that she likely wasn't going to be ready when he got there. But when I reached him, he was already there and things were going well because she was excited to see Grandma & Grandpa and tell them all about her trip to New York City. Oh my God, I had to tell my folks the latest plan -- there would be five of us now, and I'd call when we officially were on the road with an ETA.
Now it was just sit and wait.
Soon hubby & the girls met us back at Big Lot. Then, because I had the "new van," one with a magical space-age door that opens at the push of a button, all the kids piled into Star to ride with me.
And we drove off to Wisconsin. It was 10 AM and we had 10 hours of driving to do.
But what you don't know, is what that week was like for us.
Aside from the worries about the house & basement, the closed roads (oh, and the limited stock on grocery store shelves -- hello, expensive bread!), lost pay for hubby as non-essential businesses were closed , schools closed for about 10 days (which means momma isn't just home with kids who perform the usual work distractions, but are asking you all sorts of flood and science related questions -- yup, including "what causes global warming" and "will the earth crash into the sun) -- and then the additional struggle of snow-filled streets which would have to wait to be plowed because city workers were busy with the flood situation -- we had special troubles of our own.
The week before the historical crest of the Red River, we went to Wisconsin to get my son. His spring break does not line up with the local school break, so we took one of the days the girls were off school to drive to Milwaukee, spend a day with my parents, then drive back with Hunter who would then spend his week of vacation with us here in Fargo. That part went rather well, considering.
On Sunday, we all packed into "my van", named Plum Luck, and were to follow my parents in their van out of their driveway to a local restaurant for breakfast before we left for our 10 hour drive back to Fargo. Plum Luck backed up, but as hubby threw her into drive, she jerked three times and then refused to move. Not forwards, not backwards; no movement at all.
I got out, walked to the driver's side of my folks' van, shaking my head in that near-hysterical- sort of confidence that shock mixed with "this is my life" brings, and told my dad that we weren't moving. Dad & hubby played a bit with the van until my mom, hungry, said, "Let's all go get breakfast and talk about the options."
So we all piled into their van & went to eat.
But neither our van, nor our situation, was mentioned.
When we returned to my folks' house, there was more poking about in Plum Luck's engine etc., and then discussion of the options.
There were few of them. Mainly because we were down to one working van to begin with. Ookla, the big 70's porno conversion van, had been stuck for weeks with what was deemed to be a small repair -- but due to so much snow, cold temps, and no garage (let alone a heated one), hubby obviously could not get under it to see much of anything. So it sat while we operated our lives with one vehicle.
So while we could have taken a bus back to Fargo, or, as my folks' offered, have them drive us back, we would have been stuck once there. Hubby thought maybe we could borrow his dad's car and get Ookla fixed -- but I knew better. No disrespect to hubby's abilities, but "car repairs" are not in the easzy-peazy slam-dunk-fix category. Plus, if my life has taught me anything, it's that when it rains it pours. I wasn't going to bank on a repaired Ookla.
My parents loaned us my mom's van -- very nice of them. Especially as when, during the wacky week of flood-watching, hubby was able to get under Ookla, it (so far) has proved to be anything but an eazy-peazy diagnosis, let alone fix. So at least we had one reliable vehicle for the week and for the return to trip to Wisconsin to return Hunter.
Now Plum Luck, as it turns out, needed a new transmission; that price tag was way more than the van was worth. So while we had a van to get to Wisconsin, we would be stuck there. Or we'd have to make the trip by bus, have my folks drive us home, or get a rental. Once at home, we'd be without a vehicle.
Unless we drove two vehicles to Wisconsin. We thought about borrowing hubby's dad's car, but that would be a short term solution to a long(er) term problem. So we figured we'd need to buy a new (to us) vehicle.
So there we were, in the middle of both a flood and a blizzard, looking for a car -- make that a used van that would hack the road trips. And one that we can afford. And get financed post-bankruptcy.
Options were few, but the solution was Big Lot. We got a new-to-us van (dubbed "Star").
Because our drive was full (the not-moving Ookla and my mom's van) and due to the snow emergency (no parking on the street), we left the van there, intending to pick it up the next evening and park it at my father-in-law's house for 36 hours until we would leave for Wisconsin (Grandpa Dave watches our dogs at his house, so we'd be going there anyway).
But the evening we went to pick up the van was not only blizzard conditions, but due to the flood there were only two bridges open into Moorhead -- and few ways to get there. We sat in the van for over an hour and didn't even get to close to the bridge. So we called, said we'd be there the next morning.
Late that night hubby & decided that we'd leave to get the van -- and keep driving. We'd get the hell out of Dodge and go to Wisconsin a day early.
We got up early that still-snowing-morning. Each of us had less than six hours of sleep, but by 8:30 AM hubby had called Des' mom (to change her weekend visitation), I had updated my folks that four of us would be coming a day early, and we had dropped the dogs off at Grandpa's.
We magically got to and over the bridge quickly & easily and picked up "Star."
I was driving with Hunter and Des was with her father in grandma's van. I pulled out of the Big Lot lot, following hubby, and "ding" went the gas gage. I phoned hubby and we agreed to meet at the gas station a few blocks away.
We each filled our tanks, went inside to pay. I returned to Star and Hunter told me my cell had rung. I picked up the phone and looked at the missed call info. I didn't recognize the number, so I dialed it. While it rang, I looked out the front windshield. I saw hubby driving toward the road to I-94 -- and I saw a huge crack on the windshield.
Now when we test drove the van (something which excited both Des & Hunter to the point you'd think they never been on the 10-12 hour drives to and from Wisconsin), I noticed the "ding" on the windshield, on the passenger's side, near the center. I hadn't complained because prior to the test drive, we'd been informed of repairs they'd made on the van and among them was "filled windshield repair," so I just noted, "Ah, that's where it was."
But now, it had spread -- to this freakish long-horn, bicycle-handlebars, thing.
My jaw dropped just as the phone was answered.
It was Tammy, Allie's case manager for her apartment staff, would we pick her up? They were evacuating the apartment while they could control an evacuation -- and while the building was (likely) safe, there would be no staffing. I explained that we were leaving town, they could contact Grandpa Dave. But when I hung up...
Oh well, no time to reconsider, my phone was ringing again. It was hubby, where was I?
I babbled about a windshield and Tammy's call. He said to stay put, he'd drive back to meet me.
When he arrived back at the gas station, he took one look at the windshield and said, "What did you do?" ARG!
It was a normal enough question -- an automatic one, actually. The next thing out of his mouth was something about the fill not working. We stared at each other in silence for a second.
The he suggested he'd drive and get Allie while I went back to Big Lot and had them look at the windshield.
So off he went, back over one bridge (and then facing a potential problem getting back over again on the other) while I franticly called Allie, to have her be packed and ready. But Allie didn't answer. I called home & cell, repeatedly. Soon I was back at Big Lot, where upon being greeted at the door, I began to verbally vomit The Windshield Story in a rush of adrenaline.
"No problem," they said, they'd take care of it, replace the windshield when we returned.
I was stupefied. It couldn't be that simple; God was playing dodgeball with me -- the proof was on my windshield. But it was that simple.
Now Hunter & I just had to wait for the rest of the family to get here with Allie -- Allie! Oh my God, I had to get a hold of Allie! I called. I kept calling until I got her. She was barely awake and here I was barking her to pack her bags for a trip to Wisconsin. This Auspie doesn't do "unplanned" very well -- but she did very well.
Now the car salesman knocked at the window -- were we OK? So I had to tell him the story of the windshield and why we were waiting for hubby... Oh my God, hubby! I'd better tell him that Allie had just been told, that she likely wasn't going to be ready when he got there. But when I reached him, he was already there and things were going well because she was excited to see Grandma & Grandpa and tell them all about her trip to New York City. Oh my God, I had to tell my folks the latest plan -- there would be five of us now, and I'd call when we officially were on the road with an ETA.
Now it was just sit and wait.
Soon hubby & the girls met us back at Big Lot. Then, because I had the "new van," one with a magical space-age door that opens at the push of a button, all the kids piled into Star to ride with me.
And we drove off to Wisconsin. It was 10 AM and we had 10 hours of driving to do.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Wet Underpants In St. Croix
Driving back from Milwaukee to Fargo; using my cute & fun little Acer netbook to post (it's magic!). Today's trip started shaky -- more on that another time because I'm following my own advice to hubby about only focusing on what you can control or do anything about at the moment. But...
Traveling west along 35, we stopped to stretch our legs in Alma using the locks along St. Croix as a reason -- because kids always need to hear our reason. *sigh*
Anyway, we pile out and hubby grabs my hand -- not just to be affectionate, but to bolster my nerves: we're going to cross and old metal walkway. Bridges of any sort, especially those with metal grids you can see through have freaked me out every since giving birth to my eldest.
As we climb the stairs, Hunter admits he's a little fearful, so I offer him my other hand. Once he hears me adnmit I'm afraid too, his fear turns to bravado and then mockery of me fuels his fearlessness and he runs on ahead, turning every now and then to ask me if he should jump or stomp on the bridge.
Ah, to be an 8 year old boy... When the greatest motivator in life is to make a girl squeal.
When we get across, hubby explains what a lock is & how it works. They are all enjoying the view and decide to go down a flight on this side to see what they can see. I opt to remain elevated -- not just to be lazy or remain stationary, but because after some winding roads of poor cell reception, I now have all my bars & I can listen to my missed call messages.
The most important call was from the eldest, Allie, who has spent the past 4 days in New York as part of the high school theater department's field trip. Now, any Midwestern mom would be worried when her baby goes off to the big city, but when the baby's an Auspie, well, it's much, much worse.
I begin to hear her voice when out of freakin' no where, a train comes along. I can barely hear my daughter saying she got back; the plane landed safely. I'm relieved and happy -- though annoyed by the loud-ass train, so I consider hanging up and joining the rest of the family, leaving my messages for another time I can really hear them. While my daughter babbles from voicemail, I look after the kids & hubby... Derek, Hunter & Des are all on that metallic thread of a bridge above the rushing tain! All I can think of is that if they survive the shaking-toss to the ground, the train is going to kill them. Torn between the sweet relief that one child is OK and that my babies and husband are in peril, I begin to laugh and cry.
This is how they find me, when they do return all smiles and excitement, borderline hysterical.
Now they're all teasing me. I laugh back, joking that I only peed a teaspoonful. They enjoy that. Too much lol But none of them knows the joy-meets-horror-wonder that is daily motherhood.
I tried to explain it. But they don't get it; maybe they just prefer not to... A mom with underpants wet with love is cooler than any truth or reason.
Traveling west along 35, we stopped to stretch our legs in Alma using the locks along St. Croix as a reason -- because kids always need to hear our reason. *sigh*
Anyway, we pile out and hubby grabs my hand -- not just to be affectionate, but to bolster my nerves: we're going to cross and old metal walkway. Bridges of any sort, especially those with metal grids you can see through have freaked me out every since giving birth to my eldest.
As we climb the stairs, Hunter admits he's a little fearful, so I offer him my other hand. Once he hears me adnmit I'm afraid too, his fear turns to bravado and then mockery of me fuels his fearlessness and he runs on ahead, turning every now and then to ask me if he should jump or stomp on the bridge.
Ah, to be an 8 year old boy... When the greatest motivator in life is to make a girl squeal.
When we get across, hubby explains what a lock is & how it works. They are all enjoying the view and decide to go down a flight on this side to see what they can see. I opt to remain elevated -- not just to be lazy or remain stationary, but because after some winding roads of poor cell reception, I now have all my bars & I can listen to my missed call messages.
The most important call was from the eldest, Allie, who has spent the past 4 days in New York as part of the high school theater department's field trip. Now, any Midwestern mom would be worried when her baby goes off to the big city, but when the baby's an Auspie, well, it's much, much worse.
I begin to hear her voice when out of freakin' no where, a train comes along. I can barely hear my daughter saying she got back; the plane landed safely. I'm relieved and happy -- though annoyed by the loud-ass train, so I consider hanging up and joining the rest of the family, leaving my messages for another time I can really hear them. While my daughter babbles from voicemail, I look after the kids & hubby... Derek, Hunter & Des are all on that metallic thread of a bridge above the rushing tain! All I can think of is that if they survive the shaking-toss to the ground, the train is going to kill them. Torn between the sweet relief that one child is OK and that my babies and husband are in peril, I begin to laugh and cry.
This is how they find me, when they do return all smiles and excitement, borderline hysterical.
Now they're all teasing me. I laugh back, joking that I only peed a teaspoonful. They enjoy that. Too much lol But none of them knows the joy-meets-horror-wonder that is daily motherhood.
I tried to explain it. But they don't get it; maybe they just prefer not to... A mom with underpants wet with love is cooler than any truth or reason.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
No Swapping For This Wife... But How About You?
Our family interviewed to be cast for ABC Family's Wife Swap.
But after a few long talks, we decided that we weren't a good fit for the show. Not only do we have a crazy family dynamic but the requirement to forgo being on any other television show for 18 months would then limit our pursuit of more educational projects, such as my work with domestic violence, special needs, and history/culture issues.
(Plus, while we don't mind laughing at or being laughed at especially regarding our collecting habits, we* aren't exactly loud exhibitionists.)
However, if you belong to a family of collectors and welcome the chance to participate in this social experiment called reality television (for financial honorarium too!), check out the casting call and then contact Matthew McLaughlin at matthew.mclaughlin@castingrdf.com ASAP. Don't forget to tell him that Deanna from Collectors' Quest sent you!
* When I say "we aren't exactly loud exhibitionists", I mean some of us are :cough-Me: and some of us aren't :cough-Him:
But after a few long talks, we decided that we weren't a good fit for the show. Not only do we have a crazy family dynamic but the requirement to forgo being on any other television show for 18 months would then limit our pursuit of more educational projects, such as my work with domestic violence, special needs, and history/culture issues.
(Plus, while we don't mind laughing at or being laughed at especially regarding our collecting habits, we* aren't exactly loud exhibitionists.)
However, if you belong to a family of collectors and welcome the chance to participate in this social experiment called reality television (for financial honorarium too!), check out the casting call and then contact Matthew McLaughlin at matthew.mclaughlin@castingrdf.com ASAP. Don't forget to tell him that Deanna from Collectors' Quest sent you!
* When I say "we aren't exactly loud exhibitionists", I mean some of us are :cough-Me: and some of us aren't :cough-Him:
Sunday, February 01, 2009
My Sock Is A Deadly Weapon
Smoking is indeed dangerous; but not exactly for the reasons we are pummeled with everyday.
I'll admit, I'm a spaz lighting a cig -- I can't wear gloves to do it, and in this weather, that makes the forced-to-go-outside-and-smoke thing a real bitch. God I hate the weather here.
But I had no idea that having part of my cherry fall onto my acrylic sock could be so painful. No, it didn't burn me -- but it did melt that part of my sock on which it landed into a hard plastic bit. I paid it no mind -- until that night, in my sleep, I used the top of my foot to rub the dry itchy skin on the back of my calf.
I did that scratching rub in my sleep really -- because this miserable weather makes your skin so dry, you get used to itching it in your sleep. But woke up to pain as the formerly melted spot hardened into a razor-sharp bit of plastic which cut my leg. And, in case you think I'm an exaggerating whiner, here's the resulting gash on my leg.
Not only is it nearly 4 inches long, but this photo was taken two days after it happened.
I'll admit, I'm a spaz lighting a cig -- I can't wear gloves to do it, and in this weather, that makes the forced-to-go-outside-and-smoke thing a real bitch. God I hate the weather here.
But I had no idea that having part of my cherry fall onto my acrylic sock could be so painful. No, it didn't burn me -- but it did melt that part of my sock on which it landed into a hard plastic bit. I paid it no mind -- until that night, in my sleep, I used the top of my foot to rub the dry itchy skin on the back of my calf.
I did that scratching rub in my sleep really -- because this miserable weather makes your skin so dry, you get used to itching it in your sleep. But woke up to pain as the formerly melted spot hardened into a razor-sharp bit of plastic which cut my leg. And, in case you think I'm an exaggerating whiner, here's the resulting gash on my leg.
Not only is it nearly 4 inches long, but this photo was taken two days after it happened.
Monday, January 12, 2009
"I miss my mother’s body."
Because I refuse to shy-away from honest sex talk -- even if it's not "sex ed" -- I have to share with you this lovely piece on a woman remembering her mother, titled Musings on curvitude -- even if it's on an 'adult site'. You've now been warned; but don't summarily reject the link, because it's worth it.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Eat Cake & Donate!
Let’s Eat Cake, a fundraiser hosted by Melissa Margarita-DiStefano, is coming up quick: Tuesday, February 17th at the Plaza Paramount Hotel in Gainesville, Florida! Let’s Eat Cake is a cake decorating competition with all proceeds going to the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Learn more about the fundraiser here.
In an effort to make sure spread the word (and raise money), we are continuing this chain-blog (Wait. Is that even a word?)
Want to help? Here’s what to do. Cut and paste this post or create your own new version on your blog and ask others to post it on their blogs. Melissa will donate one dollar to the fundraiser for EVERY BLOG that posts on Let’s Eat Cake this week! With the power of the blogosphere, that can QUICKLY add up! Let’s make Melissa Pay! Once you have reposted it, leave a comment here that you posted it along with the url to the blog. It’s for a great cause and it will be fun to see how far it will go! So lets do it… Lets blog it forward and raise money for a great cause!!!
**Kudos to Unique Designs for creating this fun chain-blog effort and for Thoughtfully Simple and Kimworld for Blogging it Forward.**
P.S. Ok, Melissa… time to kick in another $1!
P.S.S. If any business wants to help out with a matching challenge, Melissa could use your help!
Blog it forward, then leave a comment and share your blog link!
HTML Code for Easy Cut and PasteFriday, December 12, 2008
The Best Christmas Pageant Ever?
My eldest, Allie, the theatre-loving Auspie, finally had a successful audition and got a part in the high school play. While she was giddy over her acceptance, I was anxiety ridden.
As the parent of a special needs kid, your whole take on plays, pageants, concerts and other school productions or events is if not completely opposite of every other parent's, pretty darn close to it. While parents of "normal kids" hope their child excels and stands out from the rest, we cringe in horror, hoping our kids blend in. Every single day.
It's not that we don't value our kids for their unique differences; we just know too damn well what it's like when other people, especially other kids, notice our kids' differences.
So I wasn't some stage mom hoping my kid would be noticed; I was hoping she'd not be noticed.
Practice for the high school's production went about as expected. My daughter was nervous & exhausted -- but she managed to hold up very under the stress of change and less sleep. Allie even managed to hold up when, as expected, some bitchy 16 year old woman-child (typical for high school, mind you), walked up to my daughter and said that my daughter had no right to be in the play and that the only reason she was there was because she was a freak (I'm actually editing that; paraphrasing in a kinder way with "freak" than what was said). That woman-child gets an F for having no class. My daughter gets an A+ for class. She responded simply by talking to her teacher, the director, about it and upon hearing that she earned the spot with a good audition, she left it at that.
I'm sure there was more meanness than that. It's not that I'm being negative; I've just seen how mean other kids are. First, I grew up seeing mean kids in my own school situations. And second, I've seen how mean other kids have been to my daughter -- from day care on up. Surely the high school play posses no magical kindness dust. (If it does, I'd love to buy some.)
Ironically, the play was The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I'd never seen it or even read the book; but it's a funny story about The Herdmans, "absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world," and how one year they decide to participate in the church's Christmas pageant. (Seriously, The Herdmans have nothing on average kids who are mean to special needs kids.)
Anyway, my daughter made it through rehearsal etc., and we went as a family to see the play on family night's dress rehearsal.
The play was fantastic. Because Allie tends to be very negative, she had complained that she had a very small part. She had made it sound like she was barely in the play when she was not only in most of the scenes, her character actually had a name! That was joyful discovery number one.
The second discovery was Allie's own success. She didn't screw up a thing. She not only remembered her lines and we could hear them clearly -- no shouting either. And hey, she didn't fall down. (Isn't that everyone's fear in a play?)
But the best part was realizing that she was as composed as the rest of the cast. She didn't stand out!
Now I know there were parents there hoping their kid would steal the show, grab the spotlight, be so memorable they'd transcend their role in a magical theatre moment. (And the parents of the young woman who played Imogene Herdman, the bossy girl who asts herself as Mary in the church pageant, sure must have been!) But as a special needs parent, I dreamed of Allie just fitting in. If only for the few hours the play ran.
And she did.
That's what made this The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.
As the parent of a special needs kid, your whole take on plays, pageants, concerts and other school productions or events is if not completely opposite of every other parent's, pretty darn close to it. While parents of "normal kids" hope their child excels and stands out from the rest, we cringe in horror, hoping our kids blend in. Every single day.
It's not that we don't value our kids for their unique differences; we just know too damn well what it's like when other people, especially other kids, notice our kids' differences.
So I wasn't some stage mom hoping my kid would be noticed; I was hoping she'd not be noticed.
Practice for the high school's production went about as expected. My daughter was nervous & exhausted -- but she managed to hold up very under the stress of change and less sleep. Allie even managed to hold up when, as expected, some bitchy 16 year old woman-child (typical for high school, mind you), walked up to my daughter and said that my daughter had no right to be in the play and that the only reason she was there was because she was a freak (I'm actually editing that; paraphrasing in a kinder way with "freak" than what was said). That woman-child gets an F for having no class. My daughter gets an A+ for class. She responded simply by talking to her teacher, the director, about it and upon hearing that she earned the spot with a good audition, she left it at that.
I'm sure there was more meanness than that. It's not that I'm being negative; I've just seen how mean other kids are. First, I grew up seeing mean kids in my own school situations. And second, I've seen how mean other kids have been to my daughter -- from day care on up. Surely the high school play posses no magical kindness dust. (If it does, I'd love to buy some.)
Ironically, the play was The Best Christmas Pageant Ever. I'd never seen it or even read the book; but it's a funny story about The Herdmans, "absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world," and how one year they decide to participate in the church's Christmas pageant. (Seriously, The Herdmans have nothing on average kids who are mean to special needs kids.)
Anyway, my daughter made it through rehearsal etc., and we went as a family to see the play on family night's dress rehearsal.
The play was fantastic. Because Allie tends to be very negative, she had complained that she had a very small part. She had made it sound like she was barely in the play when she was not only in most of the scenes, her character actually had a name! That was joyful discovery number one.
The second discovery was Allie's own success. She didn't screw up a thing. She not only remembered her lines and we could hear them clearly -- no shouting either. And hey, she didn't fall down. (Isn't that everyone's fear in a play?)
But the best part was realizing that she was as composed as the rest of the cast. She didn't stand out!
Now I know there were parents there hoping their kid would steal the show, grab the spotlight, be so memorable they'd transcend their role in a magical theatre moment. (And the parents of the young woman who played Imogene Herdman, the bossy girl who asts herself as Mary in the church pageant, sure must have been!) But as a special needs parent, I dreamed of Allie just fitting in. If only for the few hours the play ran.
And she did.
That's what made this The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I Hate My Coke Rewards So Much
The coupons you print on the site (which I originally thought was a "hooray, it's green!" move) are not accepted by my local grocers.
So now, it's all just a cluster-fuck unless you want to use your points to buy Coke advertising premiums.
Since some of you are Coke collectors, I suppose that's fine. Me? I just want free (or, grudgingly will accept, discounted) pop.
There are two results of this:
1) I continue to ween myself off of Coke products. (Totally what you wanted with your loyalty program, right Coke?)
and 2) I will be ridding myself worth of months of Coke points. (Details to be announced at Things Your Grandmother Knew; stay tunned there.)
So now, it's all just a cluster-fuck unless you want to use your points to buy Coke advertising premiums.
Since some of you are Coke collectors, I suppose that's fine. Me? I just want free (or, grudgingly will accept, discounted) pop.
There are two results of this:
1) I continue to ween myself off of Coke products. (Totally what you wanted with your loyalty program, right Coke?)
and 2) I will be ridding myself worth of months of Coke points. (Details to be announced at Things Your Grandmother Knew; stay tunned there.)
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