tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30138043792740053162024-02-18T20:57:36.000-08:00Seven Stories TallThis is a blog of seven stories...random thoughts about the herd of people I call my family recounted by me, the keeper of the herd...thoughts about our family's journey with Asperger's, raising five children, and the trials of life in general.Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-34360737502050148882011-09-21T11:39:00.000-07:002011-09-21T11:39:49.630-07:00Shorts on the Ground<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
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<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;">"Call yourself a cool cat, lookin' like a fool, walkin' downtown with your pants on the ground." - General Larry Platt</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Lucida Sans', 'Lucida Sans Unicode', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><div class="MsoNormal">Today, I stepped into my black swim shorts (and my amazing Cacique swim top) and shot a quick glance at the mirror. Hmph! “I must be losing some weight,” I thought. My shorts seemed a tad loose. Oh well. Off to the Y I went. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stepped into the pool. Ahh…the water embraced me. I love water. It speaks to my soul. I started around the lazy river but something seemed…wrong. I pulled my shorts up. I straightened my top and made sure it was pulled down snug. Yep…everything was covered. I kept walking, but the current seemed to be dragging my drawers behind me. I pulled my shorts up to my boobs. There. That should fix it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nope. I was flowing fabric like Stevie Nicks. What the crap? I gathered the legs of my shorts up like a Victorian lady hiking her skirt and wandered over to my dear husband. I explained my dilemma, but having always been of the opinion that his 250-pound wife should be swimming in a bikini instead of shorts, he was not sympathetic.<span> </span>I tied my shorts up in knots high on each thigh and went about my swimming. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I stepped out of the pool and progressed to the hot tub, I became distinctly aware that my arse was now sagging. My drawers, tied in knots in the front, had drooped down to the backs of my knees like a saggy diaper. Once again, I gathered my flowing, sagging fabric and went about my business. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At home, blessedly away from the peering, judging eyes of fellow Y swimmers who were bright enough to wear workout PANTS with their swim tops, I held up my ‘shorts’ for inspection.<span> </span>Holy horrors! They were SEE-THROUGH! I’m talking transparent see-through. And they had stretched from my boobs (still graciously held in that fabulous Cacique top near the top of my chest where they are supposed to be, but aren’t) to below my knees! And I had been wearing them in PUBLIC!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I believe they are magic shorts. Start with a 1x, apply chlorine and voila! Super-size shorts! I could fit me and the Big Dog in these shorts. And he is a very big dog. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEcHL7L-Bikeg-G1GJqYomtUpAjYgeXMcCmKdy6fuuK7XItwYzJ0JGW4EljP7Xw45TIKiNG0zXHw8yDQ1Slkmel1g40aFiPk7EmKUWV4fe-zb5dL-egbQBAfWWcjGuzMV7zG3l1hdUWLtd/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEcHL7L-Bikeg-G1GJqYomtUpAjYgeXMcCmKdy6fuuK7XItwYzJ0JGW4EljP7Xw45TIKiNG0zXHw8yDQ1Slkmel1g40aFiPk7EmKUWV4fe-zb5dL-egbQBAfWWcjGuzMV7zG3l1hdUWLtd/s320/2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now where am I going to find swim shorts to fit me in September? Screw you, lycra swim shorts. And chlorine too. Hmph.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><o:p></o:p></div></span></span></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-77241852982095817052011-09-10T22:24:00.000-07:002011-09-10T22:25:19.814-07:00The Pain of Perseveration<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">“If at first you don’t succeed, perseverate.” – Aspie’s favorite quote<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The amazing thing about Asperger Syndrome, is that to the untrained eye, the Aspergian may not initially appear to have any sort of syndrome at all. I often hear things strangers say. Things like: “Oh, he looks normal.” Or “he doesn’t look autistic to me.” My general thought is always “you don’t live with this kid.” Furthermore, what does Asperger Syndrome look like? It kind of looks like this- <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First of all, he PERSEVERATES. Second, he can’t let go of a subject he is interested in. Third, he really digs in and perseverates on things that he obsesses about. Fourth, he goes on and on at length about his perseverations. Are you getting the idea? Do you want to beat your head into a wall yet?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His main interest right now, besides the opposite sex, is Yu-Gi-Oh trading cards and anime clubs. He trades, collects, arranges, shuffles, rearranges, displays, talks about, demonstrates, and duels with his cards. He carries them in an old milk crate that he pilfered. That’s another thing about Aspergians. What is theirs is theirs. What is yours is theirs. It’s all theirs if they like it. It is somewhat reminiscent of raising a toddler. A 16-year old toddler. I wonder if Ariel from the Little Mermaid had Asperger Syndrome? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He has the cards sorted into plastic sleeves in 3-ring binders and he uses his card decks to duel other boys with similar perseverating tendencies. Sometimes they duel in the library. Sometimes it is at the school-sponsored anime club. Sometimes it is in our living room. Sometimes, I think he duels himself, like some bizarre form of solitaire. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The issue is not so much the cards, or the dueling, or the anime clubs. It is the incessant talking about the cards and the dueling and the card clubs! Observe a typical conversation in our house:<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Aspie: I got a blue-eyed dragon. It has 3 billion attack points. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Me: Yes, very cool. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Do you want to see my red-winged monstrous gnome?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: No, son…I’m working on something. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: It has even more attack points than all the other cards in my super deck. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: Mmm…I see.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Can I go to Jim Bob’s and trade cards?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: No, son…we will be doing chores soon and dinner. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Do you think I could do a fundraiser at the church for anime club?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: No, son…you are not in anime club this year until your grades improve, remember?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Oh, yeah. Can I go to Jim Bob’s to trade cards? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: No, son. What did I say?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: You said we are doing chores soon and dinner, but I need to see if he has a white-tailed high-flying drone.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: You can’t go there today. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Can I have something to eat?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: No, we’ll be having dinner soon and we are starting chores and you’ve already had a snack. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Ok. I’m going to call Jo Belle and ask her if I can use the church for the dinner.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: What dinner?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: The fundraiser for anime club. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: YOU ARE NOT IN ANIME CLUB. You have to improve your grades first. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: I have a D in math. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: Exactly. You have to have at least a C. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Ok. Can I go to Jim Bob’s? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: NO. YOU CANNOT GO TO JIM BOB’S. We are going to start chores soon and then have dinner!!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: But I have to go because tomorrow is anime club at the library and if I don’t have a yellow-nosed ripple-backed sprite I won’t be able to duel John George.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: You cannot go to Jim Bob’s right now.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Mom, you know what would be good for the treasure chest (for chore rewards)? <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: (through gritted teeth) What??<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Super duper, premium, debt-inducing Yu-Gi-Oh card packs. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: Son, you need to go find something to do. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m working on something.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A brief pause…<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Mom?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: WHAT?!<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Do you think we should serve spaghetti at the fundraiser for anime club?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: BLEEP Son, you are driving me up a BLEEP wall! You are not BLEEP in BLEEP anime club because your BLEEP grades are not good. I know you heard me!! BLEEP Would you please BLEEP BLEEP go find something to do?! BLEEP…BLEEP…BLEEEEEEEEEP.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Brief silence…<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Well…I have to have the fundraiser next week. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: BLEEEEEP (closing my computer) BLEEEP (leaving the room) BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A: Mom?<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">M: (Shutting bedroom door, still mumbling) BLEEEEP, I need chocolate. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-64559834151933554562011-08-14T23:36:00.000-07:002011-08-14T23:36:47.941-07:00She's Walking on Sunshine...and Don't it Feel Good!"When you jump for joy, beware no one moves the ground from beneath your feet." - Stanislaw Lec<br />
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Today, is a day of celebration. It has been one year since Skiffy...well, became a SCFE. <a href="http://sevenstoriestall.blogspot.com/2010/11/scfe-story-of-my-little-skiffy.html">Original saga here.</a> One whole year since the text message I will never forget- "you have to come in i hurt my leg." One year since the scary scene at the skating rink and the heart-wrenching ambulance ride to the hospital. One year since the doc said "we can be cautiously optimistic, but she may lose that hip." It has been one amazing year.<br />
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The strength I have seen in my girl this year has truly amazed me. And worried me. And...let's be honest, scared the ever living shit plum out of me. Knowing in my heart and soul that one simple fall could knock the pins loose and destroy her hip forever, I watched as she hopped up on one leg on top of chairs, wrestled with siblings and friends, stomped in anger, and barreled down ramps doing 120 mph in her wheelchair like Evel Knievel. I saw her develop stretch marks on her arms from building muscle so fast because she would not tolerate going to middle school in a wheelchair. I watched her struggle to carve out her identity as she entered middle school in a wheelchair with what she called an old person's injury.<br />
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Most of all, I watched her recover and heal. I watched her learn to walk again. I watched as she came to terms with her injury. Best of all, I saw her strength and determination. She is as strong as an oak. You can't break her. Wound her? Well, yes. Hell, she wounds herself. On a regular basis. Should have named her Skiffy Grace. But break her? No. She is tough as nails. Supergirl.<br />
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The good doctor has cleared her to do everything but wrestle and play football. Mmm hmm. That will be her first goal. I give it a week. She can't wait to jump out of an airplane. She wants to go climb a rock wall as soon as possible. For now, she will have to be content with spinning her color guard flag with the marching band in high school. And I shall watch her strut with joy. And she will call me creepy. And I can live with that. Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-35102785825071084552011-07-15T01:45:00.000-07:002011-07-15T01:45:56.926-07:00A Special Kind of Tired<div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion . . . . I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward. -<span> </span>Kurt Vonnegut Jr.</div><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I know…my blog has been neglected. A lot has happened that I should have blogged about. Wailer turned a year older and celebrated with the party of the Gods…a CHOCOLATE party. It was divine. Chocolate flowed from a fountain, 10 pounds of chocolate to be precise. And there were birthday guests too- several giggling, chocolate-filled little girls who had no intention of ever sleeping. Ever. The house was on estrogen overload. Poor Big Dog. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What else has happened? Hmm…oh yeah! More broken bones! Rough Stuff broke a toe. I know…not major, but it was enough to result in yet one more visit to urgent care and one more visit to the orthopedic specialist and one more stupid blue protective shoe. I swear Skiffy and Rough Stuff are in a competition to see who can self-destruct first. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So where was I? Oh yes, the blog. Neglect. Irresponsibility. Self-doubt. Frustration. Blah. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, in honesty people…suck it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You see, I’ve been tired. Hella tired. A real special kind of tired. This semester of school is killing me. Seriously. Killing me. One tedious assignment at a time. I am so tired I could sleep standing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>up. I’m so tired I could…well let me tell you how tired I was yesterday. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday, I got out of bed tired to the point of tears. And nausea. I showered, put on makeup and proceeded to take Skiffy to physical therapy. Of course, because Skiffy and I LIVE at physical therapy. I came home from therapy with enough time to work on homework for an hour before the next appointment but I couldn’t quit yawning so I wasn’t very productive at finding the answer to the very important, life-altering question about Lindblom’s theory of mutual adjustment. (Sorry, world of public administration…I have failed you.) I was about to leave for the next therapy appointment and to drop Skiffy off for color guard practice and to drop myself off for class, also known as four-hour-lecture-about-really-boring-public-administration-policies, when I decided I should go freshen up. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Freshen up? Did she just say that? Why yes, yes I did. Do people still do that? Why yes, yes they do. You know that feeling when you are just flippin’ exhausted and your makeup looks all icky and your eyes are sagging and your fat cheeks are drooping and your hair is flat and you just feel disgusting? NO? Then you don’t have a herd of kids. That moment requires some vain attempt to freshen up and look alive. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhoo, I blotted my makeup, applied more blush, and added deodorant. But that didn’t really fix the situation. I decided I needed a less frumpy shirt. Then I decided my distressed capris looked a little too distressed and I would feel better in jeans. Then I had to decide what shoes to wear. I tried on the oh-so-comfy, but frumpy, brown Skecher’s sandal, and the so much cuter black, beaded flip flop. I decided the comfy, but frumpy, brown sandals were perfect. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I’m driving down the road just cruising along chillaxing to Bob Marley when I approach the traffic circle and it happens. As I press on the brake, something feels off kilter. Something is not right. Something is just…ahh shit. I wiggle my toes and press them into my shoes. Sure as shit, the toes on my left foot press into the soft comfy footbed of my brown sandal and the toes on my right foot press against the hard, flat bottom of my beaded flip flop. “Filth and foul and filth filth foul...we have to go back home” I screeched. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, like any well developed, responsible grown person, I laid blame on the nearest human being I could find. “SKIFFY, HOW COULD YOU LET ME LEAVE HOME LIKE THAT?!” Like any witty, smart ass teenager she said “because you’re 37 years old, Mother. I thought you knew how to dress yourself.”<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sigh. Actually, I didn’t sigh. I mumbled something in my head that should never be repeated. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am that kind of tired, folks. Too tired to think straight. Too tired to function. Too tired to dress myself. A real special kind of tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-53874825973233819022011-05-15T23:30:00.000-07:002011-05-15T23:30:07.182-07:00I Love to Watch Her Strut<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjyVme2U4d7OjMtzGx4JHdB3ZSWp_0tov5PlJdjApEotnnRNt7Um8UpyloQdXE5nySqKQ3e9FhX7axiSuSEfv5UkSGXBA5LG5h1BCMNW0WbrwNhADUH65DpYknxLQlUexFX_xwL9n_izb/s1600/C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjyVme2U4d7OjMtzGx4JHdB3ZSWp_0tov5PlJdjApEotnnRNt7Um8UpyloQdXE5nySqKQ3e9FhX7axiSuSEfv5UkSGXBA5LG5h1BCMNW0WbrwNhADUH65DpYknxLQlUexFX_xwL9n_izb/s320/C.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole. –Hal Borland <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alright, I confess. I love to watch my daughter’s butt while she walks. It is…amazing…and intoxicating. It is so absolutely perfect. As she walks her hips tilt gently from side to side. One foot is planted in front of the other and her wonderful, healthy body moves purposely forward. I just can’t get enough of it. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Insane? Yes, I know. But, you see…when Skiffy <a href="http://sevenstoriestall.blogspot.com/2010/11/scfe-story-of-my-little-skiffy.html">broke her hip</a> in August, 2010, I gave up all hope that she would ever walk without a limp. I just held onto hope that she would be able to keep her own hip and not undergo a complete hip replacement at the ripe old age of thirteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For six months, I didn’t actually see her walk. I saw her hop, crawl, and swing from crutches, but I never saw her actually put both feet on the ground and walk. Then slowly, she learned to limp along with two feet and two crutches, then one crutch, and finally no crutches for short distances. But even in the end of March it remained to be seen whether she would have a limp. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now it is May. She has no limp. She walks perfectly. It reminds me of when she took her first steps as a baby. I just can’t get enough of it. I step behind her every chance I get and just admire that limp-less walk. Today, I saw her run. I actually laughed out loud with joy. It was absolutely fabulous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">She calls me a creeper.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I can live with that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-10663914662615656332011-05-13T12:26:00.000-07:002011-05-13T12:26:28.976-07:00Tales of Woe and Chocolate<div class="MsoNormal">"What you see before you, my friend, is the result of a lifetime of chocolate." - Katherine Hepburn<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">As</b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">·</span>pie Mo</b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">·</span>ment <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>temporary breakdown induced by a child with Asperger’s syndrome; moment of insanity temporarily cured by consuming mass amounts of chocolate<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, okay…an aspie moment isn’t really about the mother, but ingesting chocolate can increase a mother’s ability to cope. What is an aspie moment? It may be the breakdown a person with Asperger’s syndrome has when they are too overwhelmed and their sensory integration systems are short circuiting. It may be the meltdown that comes when an aspie wants what they want the moment they want it…but they don’t get it. Or, it may just be one of those ‘uh…alrighty then’ kind of moments that you witness an aspie having. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This last one, you just have to experience to understand. Last week in a restaurant, I saw my aspie pick up a glass to move it across the table. He stopped, mid-move, lifted another glass, and clanged the two together. He listened intently to the sound and then returned to dipping his fries in a bath of honey mustard (the 2<sup>nd</sup> bowl of honey mustard he had asked the waiter for).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I immediately thought to myself “uh…alrighty then.” If you know an aspie, you have probably witnessed many such moments. You may even witness such moments among strangers and think to yourself “I wonder if they are on the spectrum?” <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Anyhoo, this week I’ve witnessed aspie moments of the worst kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sixteen year-old Aspie has been breaking down to the point of tears over relatively minor crises: the trash being too heavy, the lawn mower blade needing sharpening, pizza from the refrigerator being cold. He is overwhelmed by the situation and quickly resorts to whining and finally to tears and storming off to his room. Several tearful fits finally led to a mildly aggressive outburst. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now Big Dog and I get to play the very un-amusing game of Guess-the-Problem. It could be the new medication we’re trying. Or it could be the end-of-quarter change of school schedule. Or it could be that he is interested in a girl and hasn’t resolved asking her out yet. Or it could be that he asked her out and got rejected. Or it could be that his senior-year friends are graduating. Or…<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so the game goes. We may never find the answer. Aspie doesn’t really know either. Although he is graced with exceptional language abilities, he doesn’t have the ability to articulate what is bothering him. Whatever it is, it activates the very primal fight-or-flight syndrome. Sometimes he fights. Sometimes he flees. Sometimes he just stands there and cries. It is frustrating and exhausting for all involved. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As a mother, I generally lose the game. I can never figure out what the problem is and I end up losing my patience when he won’t comply with chores, or meal plans, or schedules. In the end, he goes to bed overwhelmed and frustrated, and I turn to chocolate. <o:p></o:p></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-33984655813859176832011-05-03T23:59:00.000-07:002011-05-03T23:59:42.658-07:00Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right<div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Nothing is as frustrating as arguing with someone who knows what he's talking about. -Sam Ewing</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;"><br />
</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Tonight my children had the following argument while walking through a crowded Wal-Mart:</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;"><br />
</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Little Bean: Ewww!! Bras!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Rough Stuff: Mom wears a bra!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Me: Thank you. Very nice. </div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Little Bean: She does not! MOM NEVER WEARS A BRA!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Me: (mumbling) Fabulous. Please stop. </div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Rough Stuff: She does too!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Me: Yes, mommy wears a bra. Enough now. </div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Little Bean: DOES NOT. Mom has NEVER worn a bra.</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Me: ENOUGH! Hush!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Rough Stuff: She does too. Remember? They're so big I can stick my WHOLE head in...like a helmet!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Wal-Mart employee: (Giggling without shame) Kids are so funny!</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Me: Yes. Hysterical. </div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Little Bean: (mortified) That was your bra??</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;"><br />
</div><div class="main12" style="color: black; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0px; line-height: 16px;">Yep. Everybody is a comedian. </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><a href="http://www.motivational-inspirational-corner.com/getquote.html?startrow=1&categoryid=18" style="color: #990000; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-decoration: none;"></a></span><a href="http://www.motivational-inspirational-corner.com/getquote.html?startrow=1&categoryid=18" style="color: #990000; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-decoration: none;"></a>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-20682646534028893802011-04-13T23:50:00.000-07:002011-04-14T00:13:17.195-07:00Give the Girl a Hand<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE2enW0LIumkzH2RlP9h2Ly6-kYYoV8Qm78DN_I8KJL3EpQ_FPmcN62TxMzfZQwa5aaUc5CniQGV84AiO0zjQ2tWCEuK5m0YUmyKT3e0Br0fz5LoenUhTzmu-YRY_Gtbu4Lec_8xHP0Wx/s1600/hands+1_edited-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE2enW0LIumkzH2RlP9h2Ly6-kYYoV8Qm78DN_I8KJL3EpQ_FPmcN62TxMzfZQwa5aaUc5CniQGV84AiO0zjQ2tWCEuK5m0YUmyKT3e0Br0fz5LoenUhTzmu-YRY_Gtbu4Lec_8xHP0Wx/s320/hands+1_edited-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective. ~Robert Brault</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">Yes, that is a sweet waterproof, fiberglass cast that has comically immobilized Skiffy's hand in the 'thumbs up' position. The orthopedic hand specialist thinks she fractured the growth plate and may have also fractured a small bone in the anatomical snuffbox. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">Yes, I said snuffbox. No, I had never heard of it either. Yes, I have considered wrapping her in bubble wrap. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">How, you wonder? Roughhousing with a boy, of course. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">The ortho visit was very interesting. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">"Is she under treatment for any other medical condition?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">- "Yes, a SCFE."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">"OH MY! Who is treating that?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">- "Dr. X."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">"Oh. Wow. Stable?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">- "No, severe, unstable, pinned, 2 pins, August."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">"(Gasp) She's WALKING!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">- "Yes, (beaming) she will be released from physical therapy this week."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">"Skiffy, what kind of activities do you do?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">- "(hateful) Nothing!" me- "She walks. She is weight-bearing. That's it. No sports, no fall risk, no ROUGHHOUSING. Just walking."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;">Two days later, I found her in the back yard playing 4-square with a playground ball. I arrived just in time to see the ball bounce into her casted hand, right on the thumb. "Ooooowww!" Yeah, ya think?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #330000; font-family: georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;"><br />
</span>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-83382886043995905002011-03-29T23:03:00.000-07:002011-03-29T23:03:22.620-07:00C’est la vie – Ad absurdum<div class="MsoNormal">He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying-Friedrich Nietzsche<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last Tuesday Skiffy was released from physical therapy to walk without her crutches for longer distances. It is a beautiful thing to see her walking again. It is also terrifying. I spend my days worried about her every step. The old cliché that when you have a child your heart forever walks outside your body? So totally true. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I worry that she will fall and dislodge the pins in her hip somehow. I worry that she will push herself too fast and won’t heal properly; and she will because she is strong and stubborn like that. I worry that she will have long-term complications with scary names like avascular necrosis; and that is still a possibility. I worry that she will hurt. All of that worry is part and parcel to being a mom. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of that worry about Skiffy’s hip is misplaced it seems. She twisted her arm rough-housing in school last week and hid the injury for several days. Even when she revealed that her wrist was injured, it didn’t seem to warrant an x-ray. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">FAIL. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tonight, the doctor in the urgent care center put a fiberglass splint on her wrist and referred us to ortho first thing in the morning. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To be continued...</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-17749351145644004302011-03-27T23:11:00.000-07:002011-03-27T23:11:40.446-07:00Asperger's, to a Family is...An intense sense of wonder<br />
A destructive force<br />
Shaping an individual<br />
Shaping a family<br />
Alienating a son<br />
Holding a family hostage<br />
Seeking joy in a passion<br />
Being ruled by an obsession<br />
Stretching a mother's heart<br />
Tearing emotions to shreds<br />
Climbing mountains and<br />
Sleeping in cold valleys<br />
Watching a bird spread his wings and<br />
Holding the safety net until your arms are numb<br />
Seeing the world through different eyes<br />
Feeling intense frustration<br />
Overcoming obstacles<br />
Tolerating exhaustion<br />
Persevering on eggs<br />
Avoiding red dyes<br />
Staying organized<br />
Limiting spontaneity<br />
A test of patience<br />
An act of loveKeeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-61808750218771237192011-02-26T01:47:00.000-08:002011-02-26T01:47:51.825-08:00THERAPY-NOS (Not Otherwise Specified)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once again, a professional has questioned my son’s diagnosis. “He sounds like he might be more ODD (oppositional defiant disorder) than Asperger” she said. “Who diagnosed him?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ugh. Here we go again. I have been on this carousel ride more than once. He has been pegged as having PDD-NOS (pervasive development disorder-not otherwise specified), ODD, Aspergers, and high-functioning autism. Oh, and there was the kindergarten speech therapist who thought he was retarded and had no sense of reality. He was FIVE. She thought he couldn’t understand the difference between reality and fantasy. Don’t most kindergarten students have trouble with that? Isn’t that why we have such fun with the tooth fairy, and leprechaun traps, and fairy dust? But…I digress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once again, I have to advocate for my son to a professional. The thing is, the DSM changes and evolves more often than an Aspie changes wardrobes. What difference does it make what label you put on him today? The new DSM will come out and the label will change. The other thing is, and this is a big one, I live with this kid. They don’t. Why do so many people think they can make quick decisions about this boy that they have never spent any significant time with?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It doesn’t just come from professionals. Family, friends, even strangers readily supply their brand of therapy and advice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He just needs a change” (Has this person ever MET an ASPIE?)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs more structure” (Oh my stars! We live and die by the whiteboard and lists.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs less structure”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs a quiet, calm, environment” (this person doesn’t have five kids) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs medication”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs to get off all of that crap” (the medication)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“He needs this system…this book…this method…this therapy…and on…and on…and on…” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me just say, advising is easy, but I LIVE with this kid. I have been living with him every day, for sixteen years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I need advice from people who actually live this situation. I need advice from people who understand what it means in Aspie World when school is cancelled abruptly for snow, when school assemblies alter an entire day’s schedule, or when the weather changes and ruins a dry, warm walk to the bus stop. I live in Aspie World. Those small, seemingly harmless changes are like throwing a large stone in the center of a calm pond. It creates a huge splash and then there are waves and finally ripples. The family- every other member of the herd- fights desperately to keep their little sailboat level on the precarious waves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I once heard a very successful Aspie say “if you’ve met one person with Aspergers, you’ve met one person with Aspergers.” How absolutely true. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My advice to all experts, professional and not otherwise specified: Put the DSM, back on the shelf. Don’t make assumptions. Don’t toss around diagnoses like beach balls. Meet my child (or anyone’s child) and walk a mile with them before you give advice. We (the families who care for children on the autism spectrum) need support and advice. We need a beacon on the restless waters. Don’t throw more stones at our pond. Throw lifesavers, or get off our beaches. </span></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-53247702232254845222011-02-08T14:13:00.000-08:002011-02-08T14:13:25.499-08:00Language Barriers"We spend the first twelve months of our children's lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve telling them to sit down and shut up." -Phyllis Diller<br />
<br />
Today was the day for Skiffy's orthopaedic check-up. I look forward to these appointments with all of the zeal I would approach a root canal with. It is not that I don't enjoy visiting with the doctor; I do. I look forward to hearing about Skiffy's progress and so far, the news has always been good. What I dread is Skiffy herself. Something about these appointments brings out her teenage best. As soon as we arrive she flops down in chair in the waiting room and starts making the face. You know the face- the one that says 'I hate all adults for no apparent reason and I would burn holes in their bodies with my eyes if only I had super powers'-yeah...that face.<br />
<br />
You see, there is a small obstacle here; Skiffy and I don't speak the same language. The native language spoken in the home is English. Skiffy speaks Teenagerese. The hospital we visit is no help at all. They have interpretive services for a variety of foreign languages and for visually and hearing impaired individuals, but not one interpeter there speaks Teen- I checked. So, when we leave the hospital, we are never on the same page and we proceed to argue all the way home. <br />
<br />
Me: The doctor said you can bear more weight now.<br />
Skiffy: No, he said I could go rock climbing.<br />
M: He said no such thing! He said you have to protect that hip.<br />
S: He said I was all better and I could take on the whole world if I wanted to. <br />
M: He said take it easy!<br />
S: Skydiving is easy. <br />
<br />
The last time we visited with the doctor, he said Skiffy would probably walk without crutches by September. I asked about band camp in July and he squirmed and said "we'll see." Today, he looked over her x-rays and declared it was time to start physical therapy and that she may walk in as little as three weeks! Gibberish. He must have been speaking gibberish. I heard "the x-rays look incredible, the bone is fusing, she can start therapy now and if all goes well she may be walking in three weeks." Skiffy heard something different altogether. Her version went "I can start walking TODAY."<br />
<br />
Excuse me, interpreter...where is the INTERPRETER....I NEED AN INTERPRETER!!<br />
<br />
So, the bone is fusing in the left hip around the screws and for now at least, the femoral head (big round ball on top of the femur) looks healthy as if it is maintaining the blood supply. The growth plate is also fusing in the right hip which means it cannot slip and created problems like the left side did. All good news! She is going to walk months before we thought she would. It looks like this child has been part of a small miracle. Oh, happy day!<br />
<br />
She pouted all the way home. She did not like the doctor's lecture about only getting one first chance with this hip and that taking risks could cause her to endure a hip replacement at a young age and how that would be a terrible thing. She did not like that she couldn't walk TODAY. She did not like that we did not go see a physical therapist TODAY. She does not want to wait three more weeks to walk. <br />
<br />
Good grief. The biggest joy of the day- we don't have to do this again until May. I hope they hire a new interpreter by then. Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-80081191633658400402011-02-06T17:22:00.000-08:002011-02-06T17:22:21.711-08:00Cereal KillersHave you any idea how many children it takes to turn off one light in the kitchen? Three. It takes one to say, "What light?" and two more to say, "I didn't turn it on." <br />
-- Erma Bombeck<br />
<br />
Hello. My name is Keeper of the Herd and I'm a stress-eater.<br />
<br />
After a challenging second interview and a really rough week I decided that what I really, truly, wanted after a nice, long sleep was a big bowl of Cap'n Crunch cereal on Sunday morning. Not really a bowl, no...more like the whole box. I wanted to binge on Crunch and eat my crappy week away. I wanted to keep adding little bits of crunchy goodness to the milk until I was content that I wanted no more. I went to bed dreaming of my morning bowl of bliss. (Hey, I don't call you out on your bad habits! Don't call me out on mine!)<br />
<br />
Saturday night I took my beloved herd to the grocery store. I asked each of them what kind of cereal they wanted. I BOUGHT them the cereal THEY wanted! Several boxes! I bought myself a beautiful box of Cap'n Crunch. Ahh...sweet, crunchy corn crap. But alas, when I awoke on Sunday, what do you think they had eaten? Absolutely! MY box of cereal! Their boxes were untouched. Unbelievable; unless you have a herd of your own and then surely you have experienced this brand of betrayal.<br />
<br />
Of course, what escalated my shock and outrage at the discovery of the near empty box of cereal was that not one member of the herd made a peep when I bellowed "WHO DID THIS? WHO ATE MY CEREAL?" The look on their faces said "cereal? What cereal? Who is this woman? What is she hollering about? I have never heard this word- c e r e a l."<br />
<br />
Finally the scrambled answers began to flow. Not in the form of confessions, mind you; no, no, they took the form of blame. "Rough Stuff had some. Little Bean had a cup too." Why is it, when you ask a question of a herd of children, their replies never, ever begin with 'I'? They know they've been caught. They know too, that their siblings are going to rat them out and sell their soul, but some compelling inner force keeps them from making a confession. <br />
<br />
I threw the half-empty box of cereal on the floor in a momentary mommy-tantrum. I know,I know...I could be nominated for a worst-mommy-of-the-year award for that scene but I wanted the herd to know that I felt betrayed. I declared I would never again buy them the cereal they asked for. They pursed their lips together to hide smiles. They knew I was bluffing and they were keeping their poker faces on. I stormed away, without my Crunch cereal. <br />
<br />
Herd 1-Keeper 0Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-76146258003417617492011-01-30T21:55:00.000-08:002011-01-30T21:55:30.823-08:00Along Came a SpiderLiterally spacin'<br />
I sat on my basin<br />
Reading my cares away<br />
When along came a spider<br />
I fled to the side...er...<br />
And dribbled right down my leg<br />
<br />
Arachnophobia: the irrational fear of spiders and spider-like creatures. It is my curse; the ball and chain I drag with me on my journey through life. I am terrified of spiders. I have unreasonable fears that they will jump on me or crawl on me. I have been known to hurt myself trying to escape them. This particular time, I was not injured. Just thoroughly humiliated. <br />
<br />
I was sitting innocently on the toilet when the attack happened. I was chattering at my husband who was going about his nightly getting-ready-for-bed rituals and reading from a local paper (one I had actually picked up from a local store and carried with me most of the day). Suddenly, this enormous, butt-ugly wolf spider crawls out of the pages of my paper, right over the top corner and...HORRORS...almost onto my hand!<br />
<br />
There was no time to think. I closed the paper (Big Dog said I actually folded the paper but I have no memory of this action) and flung it as forcefully as possible in Big Dog's direction. I simultaneously leaped from the toilet, into the shower, placing myself as far as physically possible from my attacker. <br />
<br />
What happened from that instant on was a biologically primitive reaction that was completely beyond my control. My sympathetic nervous system took complete control of my physical body. My voice forced shrill pleas for assistance, my legs went numb and rubbery, my heart raced, and my bladder deflated like a busted birthday balloon. <br />
<br />
Big Dog stomped cluelessly at the spider, missing it entirely, and causing it to flee in my direction. I continued to scream in sheer terror. Finally his big shoe found my attacker and with a final crushing blow the terror ended.<br />
<br />
As I finished undressing and turned on the shower my heart descended from my throat and my bladder began to regain some resemblance of its former self. I felt so ashamed, so dirty. This ugly thing, this SPIDER, had taken my dignity from me. Like all victims of assault, I suffer PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I can no longer read newspapers and magazines on the potty. I am relegated to sit there on my throne, bored, eyes patrolling the perimeter for a possible attacker.<br />
<br />
Little Miss Muffet, I have walked a mile in your shoes, I have sat where you sat, and you, my dear child, have my utmost sympathy.Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-75600223152809118092011-01-14T00:06:00.000-08:002011-01-14T00:06:22.514-08:00Revelations of a Wavy Woman<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What after all is a halo? It's only one more thing to keep clean” –Christopher Fry</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, I’ve revealed that I have hair issues. I vowed at a tender age to never, ever dye, perm, bleach, crimp, straighten, or otherwise abuse my hair. The challenge hasn’t been too difficult. I’m kind of a blue jeans and basics girl. I change my hairstyle every few decades and then only under extreme duress, but I must confess that I have not always been true to my vow. I was a teen in the late ‘80s and I am guilty of mass hair spray consumption. Yes, I too had poofy bangs teased to humiliating heights with a blow dryer and curling iron. I even sported a spiral perm for my wedding. Then, for the next decade or so, I settled on soft, feathered bangs and tamed long locks, courtesy of blow-dried, hair-frizzing heat. I was perfectly content. Until…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I partied like it was 1999. Nah, not so much. The dawning of the millennium found me heavily pregnant with twins. It was then that I first began to notice it- the first signs of betrayal. It was subtle at first. The color shifted. My auburn locks were turning blonde on the ends. I looked like I was growing out a dye job. My hair was mocking me! Gradually the changes became more aggressive. My soft feathered bangs wouldn’t behave at all. They wanted to…GASP!...CURL! My hair was becoming coarse, multi-colored, and un-manageable. Well I was not about to go down without a fight. I applied more heat. I spent more time brushing and coaxing and pressing my hair into place, but the battle was on and I was losing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, several years later, a friend (and supervisor at the time) <s>convinced</s> <s>cajoled</s> <s>coerced</s> inspired me (yes, that’s it!) to let my hair do its thing. I worked up the courage to just step out of the shower one day and sure enough (how could she have known?!) my hair dried in soft, spiral curls. Well…I’ll be damned. All that time I thought my hair was misbehaving and it was actually transforming. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I set out to learn how to handle my curls and stumbled onto Lorraine Massey’s Curly Girl method. Now I am a born again poo-free curly girl. That’s right. I said poo-free. I haven’t used shampoo for over two years. I step into the shower every morning, rinse, condition, scrub my scalp, rinse, finger comb, and leave it alone. I plop my curls in an old t-shirt to dry, which by the way is a fabulous way to embarrass your teenagers. I add a little clear gel to tame frizz and I’m good to go. I confess I love to set my curls with a bit of diffused heat (I know Lorraine, I am hanging my head in shame) but that is the limit to my hair care. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I finally embraced my hair and let it do its own thing. I was at peace with my curls. Until…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I shot a glance at the mirror one day and holy crap! There was one, defiant, solid white curl plastered square on the front of my forehead. For the love of all things, where the crap did that come from?! In an unforeseen instant I was back to coaxing. I separated the white hairs and poked them back into other, more pigmented curls and added a bit of gel to keep them in place. I thought I had conquered the curl, but occasionally, without any warning it would just reassemble itself. It was totally unpredictable. Two, three days would pass and then out of the clear blue sky whoop! There it is, right smack in the middle of my forehead. I was mad. I was grumpy. I was beginning to consider…GASP!...hair dye. And then one day it occurred to me- this little white curl- it’s my halo. That’s right. Some days I’m a handful. Some days I wear a white halo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am again at peace with my curls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-40219529875476645112011-01-03T01:49:00.000-08:002011-01-03T01:49:10.706-08:00To Dye For<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My beloved Skiffy has the most beautiful head of hair. Thick, dark brown, healthy spiral curls. It is absolutely gorgeous. Of course, like a good rebellious teenager, she hates it. She would love to dye it, bleach it, flat iron it, or otherwise find some way of turning it to straw. This is incredibly painful for me as I am a devout curly girl. (More on that another day, but in short, I don’t use shampoo, sulfate, silicone, etc. in my hair.) You see, my own mother developed an extreme complex within me, a true fear actually; a fear of dyes, bleaches, and hair chemicals in general. She had a horrid habit of ‘doing’ her own hair at home and then paying a visit and a wad of cash to a professional to repair her do from the doing she’d done to it. Her hairdresser once told her she would be lucky if she woke up without all of her hair on her pillow. The result of this hair fear/complex is that I have made a serious commitment to loving my hair, sans chemicals. It is the curse of motherhood that my beloved daughter will not embrace her own fabulous locks as I will her to. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Enter Jerome Russell’s Punky Colours hair dye. Skiffy got $20 for Christmas and has been ‘dyeing’ to get to the store to buy her dye. She returned home with her dye, but no tint brush, no rubber gloves, and no knowledge whatsoever of how to dye her hair. Curly girl au naturel that I am, I have no idea either. What I do know is that I cannot fight every battle. As she journeys down the long and painful road of asserting her independence and establishing her own identity it is my job to keep her on the high road. I am doing my best to help her avoid body piercings, tattoos, destructive hair techniques, and bad boy selections, but I can’t win every battle and temporary hair color is certainly an easy one to lose. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, off to the bathroom she went with stern warnings…no…outright threats about what would happen if she turned my bathroom green or blue and two bottles of hair dye in tow. I stayed in another room trying to subdue my blood pressure. The rational parent side of my brain said: Whatever will be will be. She will learn. Perhaps the hard way. It is her hair. Not mine. It can’t be THAT bad. So what if her hands are green and blue. She will learn from the experience. The insecure mother side of my brain said: Oh holy hell! What if it is horrendous? What if she comes out crying? I shouldn’t be letting her do this! Where did the years go? Why has it come to this already??</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Two hours later, with much prompting…no…threatening, she opened the bathroom door, soaking wet, a bizarre turquoise tint from head to toe, everywhere except…her hair. That’s right. Not one ounce of dye attached itself to that beautiful, dark, healthy hair of hers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I nearly dyed laughing. </span></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-77308348309419466602010-12-13T12:03:00.000-08:002010-12-13T12:03:48.852-08:00The Disturbing Dilemma of an Anxious AspieMeal time has brought up a new and disturbing challenge for my environmentally-conscious Aspie. He must decide what to prepare his food on- paper plates, or real ones. Paper plates waste perfectly good trees and fill up landfills. Real plates require clean up which wastes water and energy. <br />
<br />
Q: What is a good tree-hugging Aspie to do?<br />
A: Reduce the size of the paper plates!<br />
<br />
That's right. He cuts paper plates into halves, or thirds, or fourths- whatever size does the job- and saves the remaining piece(s) for the next meal. I now have a stack of cut up paper plates on the kitchen island. (colossal eye roll)<br />
<br />
On a more sense-itive note-<br />
I have always had a wee little bit of worry about Rough Stuff. She has 'Aspie traits'. I<strike> would never say</strike> would not say at this time, that she actually has Asperger's Syndrome, but she has some telltale traits that hint at an Asperger-like persona. So, I was not surprised one evening at dinner when she and Aspie had a very serious conversation about the taste of the pickles on the buffet. According to this sensory enlightened pair, the pickles tasted like old cars. Not new cars, nope, really old cars. I was intrigued. What, I asked, do old cars taste like and why would they know? (I would not be surprised if Rough Stuff had actually tasted an old car, or several.) They explained that the pickles tasted the way old cars smell like they would taste.<br />
<br />
Alrighty then. Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-49451759734203807002010-11-24T18:13:00.000-08:002010-11-24T19:02:20.391-08:00It Smells Good...But You Can't Smell Texture.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">We had lasagna for dinner. Aspie wouldn’t eat. His cold is heightening his sensory issues. His response: It smells good…but you can’t smell texture. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He is hungry, but his fear of texture is overwhelming right now. So, he prances around the kitchen tapping his fingers on every surface available while stressing and whining about his rumbling tummy. This is life with a teenager with Asperger’s Syndrome. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">His sensory issues are directly linked to his stress level. Thanksgiving break = high stress level. A common cold= high stress level. (We get to experience both in one week!) The higher the stress level, the more intense the sensory issues. As a teenager, he takes care of most of his issues himself. He handles his own showers and prevents his wet hair from dripping on his dry clothes. He turns his socks inside out-they’re softer that way. He doesn’t shave. He uses only one brand of scent-free deodorant. Food is where the rest of the family becomes ultra-aware of his sensory quirks. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Lasagna has the wrong texture. Spaghetti sauce should be run through a blender to remove unappealing lumps. Spices and seasonings are taboo. No onions, parsley flakes, or bits of vegetables (tomato, mushroom, green pepper). No mixed foods (no soup, stew, chicken and noodles, casseroles, etc.).</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In a bit of Aspie irony, everything must be swimming in condiments. Anything spicy will do, but his faves are mustard, honey mustard, and BBQ sauce. He goes through about a bottle a week, of each. He survives on peanut butter, bread, and chicken patties. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">He started a new medicine last month and it increased his appetite to Herculean proportions. He is gaining weight at an alarming rate now and I find myself policing his food consumption 24/7.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I can find a way to texturize mustard and BBQ sauce. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-9003754801714985152010-11-07T16:38:00.000-08:002010-11-09T00:23:53.501-08:00SCFE- The Story of My Little SkiffyMy herd is very special. If something is rare, odd, or just plain wierd, it will affect my herd in some way. So it went with my little Skiffy. Skiffy is 13 years old and fiercely independent. It also seemed that her middle name must be grace. She had an amazing ability to fall. I mean, she didn't just fall, when she fell it was spectacular. She could fall walking across a room, walking down stairs...once she even tripped over her locker. How in the hell does one trip over a locker?<br />
<br />
Her falls often left her with a sore knee and a limp that would persist for a few days. The falling thing seemed to last several months and I was convinced that Skiffy was just hopelessly clumsy. While at the doctor's office for a routine check-up, I mentioned it to the Dr. They decided to take an x-ray of her knee the following Monday just to see what was going on.<br />
<br />
We never made it to the Monday appointment. On that fateful Saturday that August, I dropped her off at the skating rink to enjoy the day with friends. Skiffy called at 3:00 to be picked up early. When I arrived at the skating rink, she sent a text that I will never forget. "you have to come in mom i hurt my leg"<br />
<br />
What happened over the next several minutes is forever seared into my memory. We argued while I tried to wrap my mind around what was becoming clear.<br />
What happened?<br />
I fell.<br />
Fell how?<br />
I did the splits. My leg went up behind me.<br />
Can you walk?<br />
No.<br />
You have to.<br />
I can't.<br />
How did you fall again?<br />
I did the splits. My leg HURTS.<br />
You probably pulled something. Where are your shoes? I'll put them on.<br />
I can't walk.<br />
You have to. We'll go to urgent care.<br />
(I touched her foot to put her shoe on.) OOOOOWWWW!<br />
What hurts?!<br />
My leg!<br />
Where? Tell me again how you fell? Who saw you fall? How did you get to this bench?!<br />
(The tears are starting.) Some people carried me here. They took my skates off.<br />
You have to get up. You've probably pulled something. We'll go to the ER.<br />
I can't. <br />
YOU HAVE TO. The doctors are NOT COMING HERE! You have to stand up!<br />
Call an ambulance. <br />
I can not call an ambulance because your leg hurts. You have to walk on the other one. I'll help.<br />
I can't walk. <br />
Do you think you broke something?<br />
Yes.<br />
<br />
Returning with a kid that works at the skating rink, I continued...<br />
Put your hands around our shoulders and we'll walk you to the car.<br />
No.<br />
Exasperated, the employee left and returned with a chair.<br />
Slide onto the chair.<br />
NO.<br />
You have to!<br />
No.<br />
<br />
At this point, I was scared. My mind was shifting back and forth between 'she is so stubborn' and 'what if something is really wrong?' I contemplated calling an ambulance but nothing I was looking at said that this was a true emergency. Nothing looked out of place. She had not been crying when I arrived. Somehow, she had gotten to the bench, surely she could get to the car. My mind reeled. I needed to see her try to move.<br />
<br />
MOVE TO THE CHAIR!<br />
<br />
She moved to the chair, sort of. Her body began to tremble. I knew. The tears started to well up in my eyes now and fear took over. A new conversation began between me and the manager of the skating rink.<br />
<br />
Call 9-1-1.<br />
Silence.<br />
Call 9-1-1. I'm not moving her.<br />
Well, either you're going to move her, or they are.<br />
CALL 9-1-1! They can mover her!<br />
Well...you're the mother. <br />
YES! I am the mother. And this child doesn't cry. Something is terribly wrong. Call 9-1-1. <br />
Silence. <br />
Grabbing for my cell phone, YOU KNOW THE ADDRESS, I DON'T!<br />
He left to make the call. <br />
<br />
I called my husband and said simply "I'm not moving her, we're calling an ambulance." He replied with one word, "OK."<br />
<br />
The firemen arrived first. They asked a few questions and put a blood pressure cuff on Skiffy. Then a terribly odd thing happened. They removed the cuff and took several steps away from Skiffy. The fear gripped me harder. Something was very, very wrong. One fireman took me by the shoulder and turned me away from Skiffy. He said "we're not going to move her. We'll just wait on the paramedics. She has probably dislocated that hip."<br />
<br />
Well...there it was. The confirmation. My child was seriously hurt. I answered some questions for the fireman and waited on the paramedics to arrive. Next thing I know several firemen and two paramedics are stepping in to move my little Skiffy onto a backboard. Although I have never experienced this before, something in my mind knew what was about to occur and I naturally cringed away from it. I knew that I had no place in the situation. I couldn't help. I couldn't get close enough to console her, so I just turned away, as if turning my back would close my ears to the screams that followed. As we rolled toward the ambulance I called my husband-"we're going to M." "Ok."<br />
<br />
The ambulance ride was horrific. We moved cautiously at 40 miles an hour, but Skiffy screamed out with every bump we hit and I cried with every scream and the paramedic who was driving lovingly patted my leg and tried to keep me talking and laughing. Soon the morphine kicked in and we all started to relax a bit. Funny how the morphine in her I.V. helped all of us.<br />
<br />
The arrival at the hospital was a whirlwind. I was hearing lots of terms vollied about by the nurses and EMTs, things I didn't understand, but on occasion I would hear something I could interpret. BP160. Femoral shortening. Rotation. I knew that something between her hip and her knee was not where it should be. It was plain to see with her lying down- one leg was shorter than the other one and clearly not in a natural position. I watched them cut her new red skinny jeans from her body. <br />
<br />
Later, in the x-ray room, I first heard the term that would change our little Skiffy's life. The technician entered the room after checking the x-ray and said to the nurse "it's a skiffy." The nurse walked me out of the room and said "it is broke, you won't be going home tonight, she is probably going to surgery."<br />
<br />
I tried to dry my tears so Skiffy wouldn't see my fear. With the nurses and technicians I joked about her shredded jeans and now panties that I was carrying in a bag. I went out to call my mother to share the news.<br />
When I returned to the room the ortho surgeon was there. It was all a blur. Broke hip. Slipped something-or-other. Surgery. Pins. Couple of screws. Right now.<br />
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I worked with the nurses to remove her black fingernail polish and jewelery. We met with the anesthesiologists and then as she drifted off to sleep the surgeon explained the situation. Worst case we see. Severe break. Severe unstable slipped capital femoral epyphisis-SCFE. Cautiously optimistic. Outlook is not good. Possiblity we could save the bone. Won't know for months. May need a hip replacement. Not good outcome when we replace hips this young. Hip replacements don't last long in patients of this age. She will always have an arthritic hip. She won't walk on this for many months. We'll take good care of her.<br />
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And then it happened. The surgeon asked "has she been walking with a limp?"<br />
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I felt like I had been hit with a sledgehammer. My baby was hurt in a horrible way and worse, I should have seen it coming. She had been walking with a limp. Yes, she had knee pain, as a matter-of-fact we were going to get it x-rayed on Monday. I lost control of my mind and mouth. "HOW IN THE HELL DOES A 13 YEAR OLD BREAK HER HIP ROLLER SKATING? HOW IN THE HELL?" The tears flowed freely. My husband held me tight. The doctor just looked at me with concern in his sweet eyes and said "we see this a lot, this is how SCFE kids present."<br />
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So began our journey with SCFE. A SCFE is when the ball slips off of the femoral neck like the ice cream slipping off of a cone. Doctors don't know why it happens but it occurs in 1 out of every 100,000 kids. When the ball starts to slip, the pain is often felt in the knee and kids begin to limp. Somehow the fall at the skating rink hurried the process and removed the ball entirely. It has been reattached with screws. The bone may heal. Or it may die. All we can do is wait and see. If it dies, Skiffy will get a new hip. She has a 40-60% chance of a slip occurring in the opposite hip within 18 months. The signs of a 'pre-slip' are already present. In one day, in a brief moment, everything changed for Skiffy. She started school a week late and in a wheelchair. No basketball. No gym. No activity for at least a year. She uses a shower chair now and is quite adept at using scooters when we go shopping. She has really cool black fingerless gloves so she can act like Evel Knievel in her wheelchair. We see the ortho every 6 weeks. We are being cautiously optimistic. We stay far away from roller skates.Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013804379274005316.post-19151982461602226122010-11-06T00:23:00.000-07:002010-11-06T00:23:18.304-07:00To Blog or Not to BlogI have toyed with the idea of blogging for quite some time now. I've made the decision the way I do most decisions in my life- I toyed with the idea for a long, long time. I thought about the pros and cons, researched the idea a bit, bounced it off of some trusted resources, then plunged in head first. <br />
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This blog will be a random collection of seven individual stories- seven individual stories that make up the herd of which I am the keeper. The herd consists of myself, my hopelessly devoted husband and our five very individual children. My role is to keep the herd together and moving in the right direction. Sometimes I run in circles. Sometimes I have to bark. Sometimes I growl. But, my herd keeps moving, generally in the right direction and when I flop down exhausted in the field, I fall into the loving arms of the Great Shepherd who guides me. <br />
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What kind of randomness you wonder? Oh, so much to pick from. Where to start?<br />
A journey with Asperger's Syndrome?<br />
Moans and groans and broken bones?<br />
The improbable task of balancing homework and herding?<br />
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Since I have plunged into this whole thing head first, I'll just go ahead and answer the most frequently asked question, the one I know is floating in the back of your mind somewhere-<br />
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"FIVE! How do you do it?"<br />
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Its kind of like that Garth Brooks song Fever...'its really kind of simple, you keep your mind in the middle while your butt spins round and round'.<br />
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Yep. Its kinda like that. Keeper of the Herdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10359792616977332267noreply@blogger.com0