Movin' Out. Or Not.

I want to buy a new house. I went on realtor.com today and searched for the ideal place. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, granite kitchen countertops, wood floors, fireplace, in-ground heated pool and outdoor kitchen with fire pit, built-in/walk-in closets, finished basement, nice-size lot, fenced-in yard for the dog, central air conditioning and radiant heating, fitness room, mudroom for the kids and dog, mother-in-law suite, temperature-controlled wine cellar with cheese refrigerator, and a room dedicated solely to wrapping presents. Oh, and a supremely organized and uncluttered 3 car garage.

Hey, if you're gonna dream, dream big I say.

Yeah, there you go. Perfect. Probably more than 4 bedrooms, though.

So there I was this afternoon, plugging in the number of bedrooms, the number of bathrooms, the price range and bam!--there were 5 web pages of choices, none of which remotely interested me.

I don't want to buy a new house. The thought of moving makes me quite nauseous, if you must know the truth. Packing up thirteen years of this-n-that combined with the fact that we can't leave the city school district because of Conor's hard-won educational placement makes the idea of moving nonsensical and ridiculous and totally untenable. Preposterous, really.

And I can't leave my good friend, she plies me with wine when I'm bumming, and she lives, like, three streets over.  What if my new neighborhood doesn't have a funny woman who plies me with wine every time I feel down? I mean, seriously, the new neighbors might try to give me cookies when I'm sad and I'm gluten-free.  The horror, the horror.

Plus, the nationally-recognized Kennedy Krieger Institute is practically in my backyard (we have a big backyard) and people fly their kids in from all over to go there. So, you know, there's that.

I know this, I know moving would be moronic, and it wouldn't solve a damn thing. But it continues to bounce around my brain like a ping pong ball. Boing, boing, boing, boing. (Which explains why I was in therapy for three years. Magical thinking.)

It's just... I keep trying to find the answer to how to improve our situation. These tantrums that Conor has--they're like a weight that sits on our shoulders and we just can't seem to shake free of it.

This is what it feels like each time Conor has a tantrum.
We just can't seem to get out from under them.

Quite honestly, after a tantrum, we all--Jim, Aidan and I--walk around for days with our shoulders slouching. Quite literally.

I hate living like this, with the stress and chaos of these tantrums. And so I sit and stew. What to do, what to do. And listen, we aren't getting any younger, you know? My husband turns 55 this summer; we ain't no spring chickens.  It's not going to be long before we can't handle a tantrum, physically anyway.

My husband would probably
agree that I'm good at writing.
At writing checks, that is.

How do I fix this, how do I make it better? I'm a fixer. I see a problem, I figure out who to write a check to in order to get it fixed, and it's fixed. (Hey, I'm no DIY-er, you know. I'm incapable of doing much of anything other than writing, quite frankly, and even that's doubtful most days.)

The point is, we're doing everything we can--and he still has these tantrums. Still. (Matter of fact, he's had two just this past week.)

Behaviorist. Protocols. Routines. Schedules. Menus. Social stories. Appropriate educational placement. In-home aids. 1:1 school aids. A 36-page Individualized Education Plan complete with platinum Behavior Intervention Program. Tokens. Medications. Reinforcers and more reinforcers.

So, there you go. I have no idea what else to try. Some individuals on the spectrum have suggested the gluten-free diet but food is such a fight with Conor that I don't have the stomach for that. (Get it?  Stomach? I crack myself up.) 

We also did that when he was younger and, while it helped, it was not the magic bullet others have experienced. I don't know, the individuals who suggested it say it helps with the negative thoughts.

So that's it.  I don't know what else to do. What do you do when there's nothing new left to do?



The quality of this video stinks, but that hair! That hair is da BOMB! I bet you he really misses it.

Unconditional Love Is The Cure

Recently I’ve fallen into a big funk.  A big funk laced with some melancholy and served with a hard chocolate shell of bittersweet.

Usually, I blame this kind of thing on my screwed-up gut or the peri-menopausal wackapoopoo my body seems to be throwing off these days. Hell, my poodle looks at me funny some days and I think I’m going to cry. (I feel so sorry for my husband.)

This time, however, I know exactly what set me off. And it’s not the gut-brain connection.

See, someone I know (but not so very well) posted one of those Facebook “postcards” on her page.  If you’re on Facebook, you know what I’m talking about.  The postcard said--

Her comment on the postcard read something like this--"wouldn't this be nice if it were true?" Yes, it would. It certainly would.

It sounds stupid of me, I know, but this really threw me for quite the emotional loop.  (I love butchering a good cliché.  It feels so subversive.)

One of my closest friends, who also has a child with autism, admonishes me every time I tell her about reading something like this.  Just don’t read that stuff, Alisa, she tells me. We’re not reading that stuff any more, remember?

I know, I know, but it’s RIGHT THERE.  On the News Feed. 

Look, I don't know who put together this "postcard."  (Is it a meme?  I'm not sure.)  These things travel around the Internet and Twitter and Facebook like STDs after a fraternity party.

But it just made me feel morose.  Gloomy.  Sullen.  Surly.

See, if unconditional love cured autism, my kid would have been cured so long ago.  No one loves my kid more than I do.  

NOBODY.  

(Ok, I’ll admit that maybe my husband loves Conor as much as I do.  But not more, no sir.)

I wonder? Do people with cancer have to read Facebook postcards that say—

The cure for breast cancer is unconditional love

Do men with erectile dysfunction have to read pillows that state—

The cure for ED is unconditional love

Is there a needlepoint that points out that—

The cure for vaginitis is unconditional love

No, no they don’t.

Maybe whoever came up with this sentiment about unconditional love and autism should bottle up that unconditional love and sell it on eBay.  I bet they’d make gobs and gobs of money.  ‘Cause whatever unconditional love I got ain’t really working over here.

I’m gonna go take more fish oil capsules.  Maybe that’ll make me feel better.