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.

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.)

My Coke Punishments

As you know, I grudgingly use My Coke Rewards.

Coke has made some changes to the program. The good news is that they finally let you print your coupons rather than wait for (and have the added cost & wastes of) mail. The bad news is that they have ended the one free 12-pack for 100 points.

Now you need 200 points to buy one 12-pack, get one 12-pack free. That sucks. Or, it's 35 points for $1 off. Which also sucks.

Bring back the free stuff, you bastards. I pay plenty for my Dt. Coke as it is -- & am punished with your slow flash site for participating in your points program. You make more than enough profit; just let me get a free 12-pack every 10 purchases.

Or I'll switch to another product. Maybe even tap water. You make nothing off that.

Autism & Travel

The New York Times has an article on the difficulties of traveling with those with autism.

I'm glad there are articles & discussion on autism -- and things like the Autism on the Seas via Alumni Cruises. But I still can't help but feel petty that none of this existed when Allie was younger. Nor would it be affordable today.

I hate that it took celebrities with children on the autism spectrum to make it legit.

Poem Peeves

In grown hair
(you know where)
makes me hate
my underwear.

Because I Care, And Think You Should Too

Dear friend,

Thank you. Your name has been added to the message and your comments will be delivered to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt.

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Spreading the word is critical, but please only pass this message along to those who know you -- spam hurts our campaign.

Thanks for all you do.

--The MoveOn.org Political Action Team

Here's a sample message to send to your friends:

Subject: Contraception is abortion?

Hi,

I had to share something with you. Can you imagine living in a place where birth control is considered an "abortion" and health insurers won't cover it? Where even rape victims are denied emergency contraception?

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Thanks!

Mother-Daughter Fashion Issues

Got sent this notice for a Mother/Daughter fashion contest:

Do you share clothes with your mother or daughter—but sometimes clash about fashion choices? Tell us about your everyday wardrobe dilemmas and you and your mother or daughter could be the lucky pair to get solutions in a styling session with eBay Style Director, Constance White, and the Family Circle fashion team. Plus, you could win $3,000 for the perfect shareable wardrobe on eBay and a trip to New York City for a photo shoot and the chance to appear in an upcoming issue of Family Circle. For your chance to win, submit a photo or video of you and your mother or daughter, your ages and a short description of your experiences sharing your wardrobe.

I'm posting not just because y'all might find it worth entering or worth killing time reading the stories, but because it once again serves as a reminder just how damn different my relationship is with my Auspie.

Our clothing clashes, even though she is now 19, remain similar to those between parent and toddler: She wants to dress herself, but isn't at all concerned with how she'll look to others. I doubt that any fashion team would have a clue what to do. In fact, it would likely drive them to tears.

Thinking about it nearly drives me to tears.

He's Growing Up

Last fall I took my youngest, Hunter, then 7, to the art museum. He was quite prudish and giggly about seeing men nude; he said nothing about the nude women, but had a flushed, awkward look to him...

Flash forward about 9 months. Hunter is now 8 years old.

We spent a Saturday afternoon teaching the kids to make altered art books. Since we left the junk on the dinning room table, the kids (and myself) have been puttering around with creating more pages every now and then.

Just a few days ago, both the kids and myself were cuttin' & pastin' away to our hearts' content while Derek was at work. Des is quite prudish too, and so when she asked for me to hand her a magazine from the pile, I jokingly asked if she wanted the Victoria's Secret catalog.

She turned pink and gave a laughing but emphatic, "No!"

Hunter, seeing her discomfort, asked what it was. When I told him it was a ladies underwear catalog he asked for it.

I gave it to him knowing that A) he was likely only trying to get his sister's goat (or, more likely, to get her to groan), and that B) he's rather prudish himself and would likely blanch at it and put it down in a minute.

But he didn't.

Just seconds before he had been all squirrelly over a "sexy woman" on the front of Interview Magazine, but now, he was completely entranced.

He sat there cutting with what can only be described as "dedicated frenzy".

He made a few comments about how "hot" this one or that one was. After a few of such comments, I simply asked him how he would feel if Des & I were to make those comments about men in their underwear? (I thought Des would puke she turned so green at the idea.) He got the point quickly and said little else.

Well, OK, I did have to have a few such discussions; but they were short and he did seem to absorb them as important and modified his behavior.

He was then pretty quiet -- until he made a mistake.

Suddenly he turned to Des, trying to get her to look at one of his paper ladies. She refused, saying she didn't want to look at them. "But, I accidentally tore part of the page, and now I had to cut her leg off -- does she look OK?" he asked, really worried.

I reassured him it was OK. And that he could cut her off at the waist; she'd fit better on the page that way and no one would know.

"But I like her legs!" he wailed.

So he pasted in his one-legged beauty & continued to work in silent earnest.

Until --

"Oh no! Wh-What? Why would they--?"

I turned to look at him frantically paging through the catalog until he sighed and said, "OK, good."

Feeling my question, he said, "They had started to put them in clothes."

Ugh.

"There's nothing wrong with a lady in clothes," I reminded him, "Just as there is nothing wrong with the human body, there is nothing wrong with the body clothed."

"Yeah, but I like their boobs and legs," he said.

"Well, it's natural to notice them and find them pretty," I replied, knowing Des was crimson -- but listening too. "But remember, these ladies have mothers, brothers, maybe even kids; and they laugh & cry and want to do things, just like everyone else. They are not pieces of paper or toys you can just think of as parts. They are people."

"I know," he said thoughtfully. "I just like to look at them."

We each continued to work in silence for a bit. I had to admit, he was far more interested in the altered arts book project than ever before. I mean he liked it before, but usually his max time working on it was 30 minutes at a time; it was at least an hour this time, with no signs of leaving anytime soon.

"Hunter," I said, "You sure seem to like those ladies..."

"What. They are pretty."

"Yeah, but you were just all grossed-out over that other lady on the cover of that magazine," I gestured, "And now...?"

"Mom, you have to face it; I'm growing up."

"Yes, but that was only ten minutes ago," I said.

"Some of us mature faster," he said.

How true.

He returned to his cutting and pasting.

I then began to wonder if this was a problem... Should I have let him have the magazine?

But let's face it, the ladies in VS aren't nude and he can see all that and more on the beach or TV.

And I figured at least he was there, with me, having his questions answered & his enthusiasm properly channeled -- without the freak-out to send him into sexual guilt and repression.

I figure that this is far better than discovering the catalog on his own or with a peer (very likely, given how they litter most homes) and having no proper context for understanding. This time with him was a gift.

Sex Ed - From The Kid

My eldest, the Auspie, was always a hoot at the museum. From 3 on, when I was in college and had the discounted student pass, she'd stomp around the library-quiet museum with me during weekdays in this pair of brightly colored cowboy boots that she had to wear, no matter the weather or season.

My favorite Allie In An Art Museum Story took place during her first visit to the MAM.

We were looking through the "classic masters" section of paintings, when I heard her grunt and stomp out of the room. I did my own classic mommy bit then, trying to quietly catch up with her. When I did, I asked her why she left so quickly.

Hands on her hips, she turned to me and said, "I just don't understand why they have to put the fur there."

I stood stupefied for a moment -- and then remembered the partial female nude. "Fur" meant public hair.

"It's just the human body," I said. As 'mommy' -- and a single parent then too -- she'd never minded barging in on me in the bath (as you'll see in a bit) or getting dressed and so had seen me nude enough to know that pubic hair was, is, normal.

But apparently 'normal' had no place in art.

"They just shouldn't show that. They should paint a dress on them or something," was her reply.

As if nude models were understandable, but painting them thus was the problem.

Speaking of Allie and pubic hair...

Once when she was little she pushed her way into the bathroom while I was on the potty myself. She took one look at my pubic hair, pointed her little chubby toddler finger at it, and said, "Chipmunks live in there."

I knew if I laughed, I'd hear that forever; so I bit my tongue and replied, "No, they do not. When ladies and men grow-up, part of maturing is growing hair on their private parts."

She stood and stared at me.

Then she raised her finger along with her voice and shouted, "No! Chipmunks live in there!" Then she stormed out of the bathroom.

Leaving me a very puzzled mother on the toilet -- still too afraid to laugh.

Visting The Art Museum

Like most moms, I am forever behind in placing photos in the album; so why should digital pics posted in the old blog be any different? Here are some photos from when Hunter and I went to the Milwaukee Art Museum last fall, when he was seven.




I like to take kids alone to art museums. You get to take time having the child lead you around, stopping where & when they wish to, and have them respond to art without interference or opinion from anyone else. All I say is, "Show me what you like." And when they do, I ask them what it is they like about it. It's a very natural way to get at artistic response without bogging them down in stuff they don't understand -- or overwhelming them with stuff they don't care to know and won't remember anyway.

Plus, it just makes for a more relaxed, fun, trip; which means they will continue to want to go to museums.




And of course now I can snap pics with my cell (and take 9 months to post them), to add to the interactive experience.




Hunter, being raised by a rather negative father, often stops to say what he doesn't like. But my reaction is the same: "What don't you like about it?"



Eventually, either breaking out of 'daddy mode' and relaxing with me -- or just feeling more comfortable about looking at art -- eventually moved into telling me what pieces he did like.




Then it's off to the gift shop to buy a few postcards of their favorite pieces. Something to take home and look at later, I believe, reinforces not only the 'good times of the trip', but provides actual art in their room.



Things you should also know: He didn't like the nudes -- especially the males.



The best thing to do was to let him joke a bit about it. Little boys like butt jokes, so...

Crazy Like A Metaphor

I'm struck by so much in Dangerous Knitting:

My child fell apart. That is what happened in actual time. No speeding cars, no spinning yarns, no old TV characters. Those are just props, mixed metaphors that translate the whole mess into a story that has some recognition, that makes some sense. Back in the actual world, the world that makes no sense at all, my child fell apart. Fell so hard that all action stopped and we literally couldn’t move for months. We all broke down, we all went blind. We found ourselves groping through a glaring maze with no metaphorical nuance: hospital corridors, clinical intakes, treatment programs, therapy sessions, psychiatric appointments, insurance adjusters, all flourescent lights and buzzing machinery. Ravel, unravel, they have the same meaning: to become dis-joined thread by thread. Ravel, unravel, ravel, unravel, it makes no sense. Roll the mess into a ball and knit. What else could I do? Back to metaphors.

I learned to knit that year. My daughter calls it dangerous knitting, for the way I hold and pick the yarn from the very tips of my needles; the way it looks like everything is going to fall apart into a tangled mess. The trick is to wrap the yarn around my left hand, just so, not too tight, not too loose, and keep up a momentum. I always have several projects going at the same time. When one piece gets too tough and confusing, I move on to a softer fiber, an angora or chenille. But it can all fall apart, accidentally or on purpose. Everything put together sooner or later unravels.

Via Cult of Gracie.

Domestic Violence, Child Custody & Court

Barry Goldstein discusses the crisis in the custody court system that has resulted in thousands of children being sent to live with abusers -- tonight at 9 (central).

For more info, see Cult of Gracie.