I love happy endings.

Yesterday had a happy ending.

The Teacher e-mailed me back and said that was just fine if I wanted to pick him up, but they also had an extra costume if I was ok with letting Dino stay. I e-mailed back that was fine with me, but I was still coming in just in case Dino might have a meltdown. I got to the school a little bit early and came into his classroom. Of course the kids were completely wired for sound; actually ricocheting of the walls like super-bounce balls.

The Teacher came up and said to me, “I offered the costume to D and he said ‘no, thank you’ but he does still want to be in the parade. I asked him what he was going to dress up as, and he said he was going to be himself.”

I said, “Great! Sounds good to me.”

The Teacher announced, “Ok, boys and girls, it’s time for us to get dressed for the parade! I’ll help the boys and The Para will help the girls.”

He gave D some coloring stuff to do while everyone got changed, and chaos ensued. At one point, D buried his head in his crossed hands on his desk, and I was worried we might have an impending meltdown. Loud freaks him out. But he looked like he was handling it for himself pretty well, so I left him alone to take care of his own distress. The other kids were getting changed into their costumes, yelling excitedly and running in tight circles not unlike a highly caffeinated herd of Jack Russell Terriers.

Oh, and one interesting note… one little boy dressed up as a girl. What better costume for the budding closet transsexual? Um, yikes. Of course, he got the most attention from all the other kiddies; but much to my surprise, it was fascination rather than derision. He must’ve pulled it off because he was one of the cool kids.

The Teacher had everyone line up for the parade and at the last second, D got up and joined the line, next to last place. The procession, well, proceeded. The Para showed us other moms the short cut out to the playground where the kids would end up. We walked through the gymnasium and down the fire exit to the playground.

Ok, side note? All elementary school gyms smell the same. I walked through the double doors and instantly was flooded of memories of the humiliation of getting chosen last for teams, staggering in last in races, and forged notes excusing myself from the requisite involuntary indignities that is Physical Education. I found myself wishing that I had been able to raise my kids where I grew up so I would see a full circle, bringing my sons back to where I was humiliated educated. Partially the nostalgia of returning, but also partially so I could go to parent/teacher conferences and say, “See, I turned out OK in spite of your insistence that I would never amount to anything since I was brilliant yet completely incapable of applying myself.” I had a hearing impairment and ADD to boot; and instead of an IEP, I got shamed because I could not be what they insisted I should be.

Oops. That’s a tangent I didn’t intend to go off on. Moving on.

Anyway, we got downstairs just in time to see the 2nd & 3rd graders parading and the 4th & 5th graders supervising. I heart R’s teacher. She’s so perfect for him. She came up and chatted a little and told me how well he’s been doing.

How about some sugary cuteness with a side of adorable?

I have a Halloween dilemma. I shall explain.

In ’05, when I suggested forgoing ToT in 40 degree weather for a warm church party, The Dinosaur was all for it and The Rockstar was skeptical, but willing to try it. They came home with more candy then they would have gotten for ToT and they got to play a bunch of games to boot and got kool-aid, hot dogs, and popcorn. And I was Mom of the Week. No costumes were purchased. Neither boy cared at all.

So in ’06, I didn’t even have to cajole them into the car. They were in the back seat waiting impatiently, and honking when their dad and I didn’t come out of the house quite fast enough. Rocky was a 4th grader who didn’t parade in a costume at school, and Dino’s school didn’t parade, period. No costumes were purchased. Neither boy cared at all.

This year, I again gave them the choice of ToT vs. Church Party, and I might as well have asked them would they like pepperoni or snails on their pizza. Duuuhhhh, Mom. Much eye rolling from them and apologizing from me ensued. So sorry, a thousand pardons, where was my head, etc. No costumes have been purchased. It remains to be seen if either boy cares at all.

This year, D is at R’s school now, and 2nd & 3rd graders wear costumes and parade the halls while the 4th & 5th graders watch. Now, the only reason I would have to buy D a costume this year is for that 20 minute parade. And I just couldn’t justify spending $20 for a 20 minutes. So I talked to D about it, and he said he didn’t care if he paraded or not. But. I’m worried that at the last minute, D will have one of his meltdowns because he wants to parade in a costume, and it won’t matter to him if I try to explain that I offered the choice earlier. Very often, even though we give him a choice and he gives us an answer, it doesn’t quite sink in until he’s actually presented with the situation. And it very well could go the other way– a meltdown because he’s terrified to put on a costume and parade around with his friends. Too much of a breakdown in his routine. (I have another good story about what happened when I tried to change Dino’s routine at school once, but NaBloPoMo is coming, and I can save it for that.) We just never know what will happen until he is actually presented with the situation. And just to let you know, the meltdown is not a temper tantrum. He’s not mad, kicking and screaming. He’s terrified and sobbing. Much harder on a Mom’s heart.

So this morning I e-mailed his teacher and told him I’d pick up D early right before the kids got their costumes on. I explained my reason to him. I haven’t gotten a response. But I’m so worried about what his teacher is going to think of me. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. Will D’s teacher think I am a mean, cheap-ass wench who is going to scar her child for life? Will D have a meltdown and prove I am indeed a mean, cheap-ass wench who is going to scar her child for life? Why do I give a rip? These are the questions that agonize me.

The Hunkman is showing off his new toy on his page. Go see!

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. And I sure hope you raid your children’s Halloween candy after they go to bed just like HunkyDory does.

(This evening’s blog entry is presented uninterrupted and commercial-free, and has been sponsored by All or Nothing.)

I was at the library a few days ago. I was skimming the adult fiction shelves and I saw a book by Tami Hoag I hadn’t read yet, The Last White Knight. I’ve read a lot of her books and enjoyed her writing immensely, mostly murder mystery thrillers that make me bite my bottom lip and stay up until 2am reading when I know full well that I have to be to work at 7 and short sleep truly does a cranky Dory make. I get home and start reading this book and quickly realize that this is not Tami’s standard who-dun-it. It is a who-dun-who. And it’s not a mystery who-dun-who, because it’s smut. At first I was all indignant, all what the hell is this crap? and then figured out it’s not new material, it’s a re-release in hardcover, an encore presentation if you will. Her first book deal was a series of Harlequin-esque diddies, the likes of which my sensitive reading taste turns up its snotty (*snickers*) haughty nose at. So I start out all oh hell no and then I get all well it is Tami so how bad could it be? and moved on to well, just one chapter won’t hurt and then um, rrrowrrr, and I was hooked. I read the whole damn thing. I felt like I ate a whole damn cake. That book was solid chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, sprinkles, and three scoops of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. Total brain junkfood. But mm mm mmmm it was good. I still feel a little guilty. I made it through Anna Karenina, how could I possibly have enjoyed that book so much, what with all its iron-hard tumescence and entrance of her feminity. Gah! Oh, but it was steamy. Then the book I just finished tonight, The Infidelity Pact by Carrie Karasyov, was just ok, pretty much brain candy. I’ll save you some time and just tell you, the killer was

This blog entry has been interrupted for this Special Hard-Hitting Infomercial.
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We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog entry in progress.

And that, my friends, is the meaning of life.

The job hunt and the resulting broke-ness continues. I have one resume out there I’m sure I’ll get an interview for, but I’m also pretty sure I’ll hate it. It’s a graphic design position for test booklets. *yawns* *finds a wall with wet paint* *pulls up a chair and stares slack-jawed at the wall* Then I have another resume out for a graphic design position at our local community college, and I’m really excited about this one. I’d be doing graphic design in-house for whatever the college needed. Includes free tuition (you mean I might not have to pay $309 for ASL 4?!), great benefits, and a free membership to the campus gym which is a really nice facility, just built a couple years ago.
I still haven’t gotten paid for that freelance job I did back the last week in July. Absolutely ridiculous. Apparently, Invoice Due Upon Receipt means Whenever You Get Damned Good and Ready. $1100 might not be a lot to them, but right now it’s the only thing standing between me and foreclosure.

The Seester might kill me for discussing this with y’all before I even discussed it with her, but her darling nephew, Rocky, is going to turn my whole head gray before I hit 40. Hunky told me on the way to pick boys up from school that he had just checked history on Firefox, and about six days ago, there was a whirlwind of adult-site type activity. Now seeing as how he has promised me no porn and it’s just understood that I will not look at porn (1-I’m not interested and 2-If I was, that would be an unfair double standard) and Dino’s off on his planet most of the time and hasn’t even asked what sex IS yet, that leaves… Rocky. He did have the courtesy of not even trying to lie about it. We had a discussion about how pornography is evil, it objectifies women, it makes deviant crap seem normal which in turn stunts any relationship you do have with a real woman, etc. etc. etc. and I think he actually listened. I thought we handled it really well, on the outside. On the inside, I’m screaming, my baby wants to know what underwater sex looks like?! ACK! But I knew this day was coming, he’s about to turn 11, and we may be facing hormonal surge-age a lot sooner than I was ready for. But would I ever really be ready? Sure, when he was about 27.
HunkyDory has a don’t-ask-don’t-tell approach to sex education. We don’t initiate a birds-and-the-bees conversation, but if you’re old enough to ask, you’re old enough to tell. We will tell them almost anything and answer almost any questions that arise. Rocky was six and half when he asked, and we explained and showed him kid-level books and discussed our views and morals, basically we had This is What Sex is All About Week at our house. Dino just turned eight and hasn’t even asked about, or talked about, sex yet. I suspect that has something to do with the Asperger’s. But it still worries me some. Isn’t it a milestone that kids hit at a certain time like walking and talking? We have an appointment about the Asperger’s in September and I want to try to remember to ask the doctor about this. Should I initiate the conversation or wait until he asks?

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

It seems no matter how much I get done, instead of feeling accomplished, I feel even more behind. My ppc has a task list feature complete with a reminder on the ‘today’ screen, so now I have digitized neuroticism.
I got all the boys’ clothes sorted and put away, but I haven’t even touched their winter clothes yet. I still have to sort through those and put into “still fits R”, “now fits D”, and “Goodwill” piles then get them put away in their dressers. While I’m at it, I’m going to force myself to give up a large chunk of my winter wardrobe. I have items that have been through at least three winters and never actually been worn.
Are you sitting down? Good. I finally started the curtains for the office tonight! Yay!
I filled out all the boys’ school forms and took them to open house at school to meet their teachers today. A Dinosaur-sized meltdown was narrowly avoided on the way into school. He was still being all weird after we got inside, so the teachers got a glimpse of the Crap Sandwiches he can serve up. I met both boys’ teachers. They both have regular teachers, then they both have Spec Ed teachers, Speech Therapists and Paras built into their IEPs. Rocky’s teacher seems to be just right for him, she’s pleasant but has good puttin-da-smackdown potential. I already knew his Spec Ed teacher, (and I like her) and his Para, so that was no surprise. Dino’s teacher is all brand-new and fresh-faced, and has absolutely no clue what’s about to hit him. His Spec Ed teacher seems fine and his Para too. School starts Tuesday. I’m waiting with bated breath right along with every other mom that has been at home all day long with the bored young’uns for the past 12-ish weeks. Tuesday morning at about 8:10am will find me on the way home from dropping the kids off for the first day of school and wishing that it was societally correct to chug a morning celebratory beer. The first day is a half day, wassup with that?! So kids start back Tuesday, ASL 3 starts in a week for yours truly, and Hunky’s back in school August 29. Wooooot.

Man, the summer has flown by. What with all the job applications and the couple freelancing jobs I picked up and tackling a multitude of mundane house projects, summer snuck right by me. I finished up the big freelance project I took on, but they’re dragging their heels on paying me, which really worries me. I was told at first that they would pay me a couple days after delivery of the project to the event, then when over a week went by, I im’d the main contact I had to tell him I hadn’t received a check yet, and he apologized profusely and said it would be more like three weeks since they were going to cut the check at their next meeting. They owe me over $1100, which I’ve already promised to the mortgage company. Then we got two certified letters from the IRS today reminding us that because of an oversight back in 2004, we owe an additional $870. Ain’t bein’ a grownup grand?!

I probably built up the naughty sex toy party and sign language combination a little too much, but that’s ok, right? Friday night I had a party, and a good time was had by all. I made walking tacos and many drank a little more than is socially correct. :) Anywho, a very good friend I made back in January-ish when I started hangin’ out in the Deaf community was there. Her husband had taught me a bunch of the more raunchy signs, and this knowledge came in very handy when there were a few times during the evening that I did a little interpreting between her and the Passion Party Consultant. I had to laugh when at one point the consultant stopped and said, “Wait, what was that sign again?!” If you want, go check out her website and if you order anything, we’ll get it to you. :)

Finally, Rebecca tagged me so you can blame her for the next rambling paragraph.
Why do I blog?
I suppose you deserve a better reason than “why not?”.
I started blogging in 2003 over at LiveJournal when me and the mister were separated. I wrote mostly to bitch vent. I wrote sporadically and sported this whole bitter-angsty vibe (as opposed to the cheery-angsty vibe? Duh.). In April I moved over to blogger and took the clean-slate opportunity to lighten the frick up. Now I blog to entertain/inform my real-life friends of the plot line on the Dory Show, and maybe even garner some attention from new victimes people out there in InternetLand. I also blog just because I enjoy writing. As I said yesterday, I just love words, and I always have. I love the emotions I evoke for myself and others, and I enjoy making words play nicely together. In my kindergarten play, I got to be the narrator because I was the only kid in class that could already read. All through school when the teacher assigned reading/writing exercises, the other kids groaned, but I was in my element. In those moments, it didn’t matter that I felt completely awkward socially, didn’t know quite how to fit in, and my peers didn’t know quite how to take me. It was just me and words and my imagination, and we got along fine.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude.

The Hunk and I do not pamper our boys. I think we don’t, anyway. But when they run to us with their little owchies and boo-boos, we do the same thing our parents did with us.

“Are you dead? Are you bleeding? Well, it’s a long way from your heart. You’ll be fine.”

In other words… suck it up, buttercup.

The boys are out of school now, and very regularly beating the piss out of each other.

We were at the park the other day, grilling out, and the boys had been sent to the car for misbehaving. My friend Fiona happened to walk by the car and see The Rockstar kicking The Dinosaur in the head repeatedly. The Hunk dealt with the punishment/discipline/beating and F went back to check on D and make sure he didn’t have, like, a concussion or something. She said, “D, are you ok, honey?” And he looked at her, his little face still with wet tears running a path through the grime on his face here and there, and he said, “Well, I’m not bleeding.”
She about wet herself laughing.
And then ran over to relay what D said. And then we about wet ourselves laughing.

Very, um, interesting, this having children thing. I’ve been at it for almost 11 years now, so I think I might be qualified to say a couple things on this subject. So you’re thinking about having kids?
Don’t do it.
I’m almost kidding. Seriously.
Don’t get me wrong… I wouldn’t give up my boys for the world. Well, most days, anyway. But having children is shockingly different from what I thought it would be. I was sure I would have enough kisses and kodak moments (every time I see a kodak commercial it makes me want to travel to kodak headquarters with a bazooka and a one way ticket to the roof) to make it truly fulfilling. I have not. I cannot say having children is truly fulfilling. Crazy-making, yes. Frightening, maddening, frustrating, yes; fulfilling, no. Being pregnant was kind of cool… ish. And when they’re teeny tiny brand new little (insert baby gibberish here) that was pretty cool. Then, ladies and gentleman, they start talking. This is the car poised at the very top of the roller coaster, you’re all big-eyed and your heart beating about a bajillion times a second, and then… clack…. clack…. clack… clack… clack.. clack.. clack. clack. clack clack clackclackclackclackclack! You’re off on the biggest ride of your life. And the only perk you get are moments like this….

I just hope when I finally get off the damn thing, I don’t puke.

The Rockstar is 10. For about six months, we totally had him thinking that he was the second R. We told him that we sold the first R on eBay because he was too mouthy, and now he lived with a family in Florida that made him work all day long. We kept it going for quite a while. He was asking all kinds of questions about the first R, trying to trip us up. We came up with answers off the cuff, and you could see the little wheels turning (and smoking) as he was re-evaluating whether we were putting him on or not. Finally, one day we were all in the car on the way to walfart and R had asked yet another question about the first R, and H was going on about exactly how the first R’s parents had gotten around child labor laws to be able to make him work every day all day long, and I was trying to stifle my laughter. R crowed triumphantly, “I know you’re lying because Mom’s laughing! I see her shoulders shaking up and down!”
By this time, I was laughing so hard I had tears running down both sides of my face, so I turned around to him in the back seat and said, “No, honey, I’m crying because I just miss him so much!” His jaw dropped and his eyes got about as big as dinner plates. And he didn’t say another word until we got to walfart five minutes later. So consequently, we got to carry it on for another couple months. I don’t even remember when we finally told him we were kidding. He still asks questions though, and it’s a big joke to get us to come up with even more far-fetched answers.

My favorite story I like to tell about my little Rockstar took place a few years ago. We moved into a house we were renting and it had just turned spring so people were out and about for the first time. We had just met our next door neighbors. We were talking across the fence and getting to know each other and then the husband followed H into our house to show him something. R popped around the corner, looked up at the new guy, and said cheerfully, “Who are you?”
The guy looked down at him and said, “I’m God.”
R looked up at him, furrowed his brow, tilted his head a little, and said, “I always knew you’d look like that.”
The guy laughed so hard he cried.
And he still tells that story to his friends years later.

R used to say he was going to be either (duh) a rockstar or a policeman when he grew up. Now, several hundreds of dollars worth of drum lessons later, he says he is going to be both a rockstar AND own his own business building custom cars. He will. I’d put my bottom dollar on it. Saying R is determined is akin to saying Jack Russell Terriers are a little active.

The Dinosaur is… different. He is, and always has been, not really all with us. Sometimes he even takes the Space Shuttle from his planet to visit ours. When he was 2ish until 6ish, his obsession was Thomas the Tank Engine. He really would’ve preferred to live on the Island of Sodor, I’m sure. Then in a matter of what felt like just a couple weeks, he traded that infatuation for a fixation on anything to do with (duh) dinosaurs. He is, and here I will make the understatement of the century, hard to communicate with. I knew that he was different when just as I had gotten used to R literally bouncing off walls, D would lay down his side and push his Thomas trains on the carpet and putter with them, for like, an hour. Where R was so affectionate that he crossed the line into clingy, D would actually push people away and would really rather not be touched. When he was big enough to respond when I read to him, I had a rather concerning exchange with him. I was reading him a book about under and over and in and out, and I pointed to the cat in the house. I said, “Where is the cat?”
He said in his tiny little voice, “The cat is happy.”
*blink*
*blink blink*
Okay.
Thinking that was just a fluke, I tried asking several other questions, which apparently the answer to every single one of them was “The cat is happy.”
He still does things like that, and he’s about to turn 8. It pushes my buttons. The teachers advised me to work around it, and just not to ask questions that may go into the danger-mom’s-head-might-explode zone. I don’t ask him a lot of questions.
The neighbor girl was over to our house a couple weeks ago to play with D. They were playing with the water in the bathroom, and there was a scuffle. The shower curtain came down, and the girl ended up in the tub. She came to tattle and D was asked for his side of the story. All he had to say was, “She was bugging me so I pushed her. I guess I don’t have a girlfriend anymore.”

Both my boys are extremely intelligent, and I’m not saying that with the Yeah Right Mom Bias. R has tested in the 99th percentile in the nation on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. D has also tested several grade levels higher than his peers. It blows my mind sometimes how frickin’ smart they are. They are gifted and talented, the schools tell us. Brilliant, is how the school psychologist referred to R. But. There is always a but. R has been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, and is severely AD/HD as well. His IEP (Individualized Education Plan in School Speak) reads a little like War and Peace. D is currently being tested for Asperger’s Syndrome, more heavy on the autistic than R. They are, in a word, challenging.
I see so many parents spend an evening with us and exchange knowing glances when they think I’m not looking. You know the look. “If those were my boys, they wouldn’t act like that.” Yeaaah, riiiiiight. I frickin’ double dog dare ya to spend one week with my children and then tell me you can do any better. You’ll bring them back early, and buy me several tequila shooters the next time we go out, I guarantee you. I used to beat myself up pretty badly about my mothering skills (or lack thereof) but I don’t much anymore. I’ve come to think that I do pretty ok, the very best I can do with what I have, and a lot of parents could have, and have done, much much worse.
*nods*
Yeah, I do pretty ok.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. This is my stop.