Day 23: APC Departs the Pattern, Household Now Lacks Purposeful Self-Improvement Guidance

Took Charlie to OT and Speech. Home for C to finish up neuro-psych testing before starting home program. Meanwhile St. APC ran to Von's for one last grocery shop and filled up the van w/ $75(!) worth of gas.
Enter Patty Kiki, our Ivy League grad, personal gardening consultant (ah, heck, landscape artist), and today, Charlie adult person so that I could leave the house while he was receiving those in-home behavior services.
Of course, then it was Time ... Time to Take Patty La (Cow)belle (aka, Aunt Patty Cake) to the airport. Wahhhhh. :(
"Pity Party of One, your table is ready now."

Home again by way of Arby's (a pity nosh) and Von's (another gas cha-ching moment, this time for the CR-V) in time to take Charlie to PLG and St. Mark's. Btw, he whacked the top of his noggin but appears none the worse for wear (and is rocking the house well after Bedtime, even as I type).

Tonight, I ran Jack & another scout to La Jolla for troop meeting and then back for Cub scout BRIDGING. I'm now den mother to Webelos. Heaven help me. Here's the lovely flowers I was unexpectedly presented:

Then back to LJ for the tail-end of a slideshow presentation on African safaris. Then home to the sitter.

Only my dedication to this blog stood -- past tense -- between me and my pillow.

* Will add photo of Jamie trip-trap-trip-trapping over the bridge later. And here it is:



Also one of Jamie in his Webelo garb:

And if it's Sunday, it must be IKEA and Lowe's.

Aunt Patty Cake and I, emboldened by another 8-hour weekend shift by our sitter, decided the time had come, the time was now for Household Improvements.

Mission One: Tim's bedroom. The boxspring and mattress we received from Ben's folks upon the occasion of our marriage had expired. Besides that, it looked a bit pathetic that his boxspring and mattress were just sitting on the floor.

Upon entering IKEA, and taking a moment to absorb the euphoria that is a well-air-conditioned space, we wandered through the maze to Bedrooms. The first option we entertained ended up being the selection. As a special bonus, the headboard has some metal rods interspersed through several wood slats, so the days of head-banging in bed achieving holes in the drywall are o-v-e-r ... that is, unless Tim becomes particularly creative. Being amazingly creative ourownselves, we found chair cushions that we have suspended to the top part of the headboard to provide a bit more protection (you decide whether it was intended to cushion Tim's head or spare the drywall). For those who haven't perused an IKEA, it is an impulse-buy paradise. To wit: a pink soft-sided cooler, suitable for Padres games; a 4-pack of pink ice packs for aforementioned cooler; and a beach mat with pink trim.

Mission Two: Outdoor furniture. The adirondack pieces Ben and I bought off the back of a truck c. 1995 for $175 (including a picnic table, 2 armchairs, 1 loveseat-size bench, and 2 benches) have deteriorated such that they are now snagging clothing and require seated, sustained feats of balance to stay in place. The picnic table expired last fall. At least one chair is now with the garbage, awaiting pick-up. The "love" bench is questionable. Only the picnic-style benches survive to continue their service to my Cub Scout den. Aunt Patty Cake encouraged replacement with four (4) sling-seat chairs @ less-than-$20 per chair.

For another $20, we added a petite table for drink-holding ... for whatever purpose is there for outdoor seating if not sipping refreshing beverages?! (While we were in Lowe's, the Consummate Consumer also purchased a replacement flag bracket & flag pole).

Mission Three: Laundry room. While at IKEA, we spied a compact clothesrack. So, GONE is the monstrous rack w/ hampers that have been sagging AND impeding my access to the dryer (especially problematic as my girth has surged).


Three hours after our return, APC had assembled (or removed the onerous volume of packaging) from the patio furniture. I assembled 80% of the new bed before requiring technical assistance from, first Jack. Then, APC entered the fray (upon hearing my "Lord, love a duck!" hollering at Jack's inability to stabilize sufficiently). We then enlisted Jamie, who was quickly fired. Then, Patty Kiki entered, with her Margarita Bag stocked. Seeing the state of our assembly, she volunteered Pat George, her next-door neighbor and closest XY-chromosome-bearing neighbor that was awake and handy with tools.

So, Patty Kiki ferries P.G. down. P.G. agrees, after several attempts, with our assessment that there is an inherent flaw with the particular corner causing us distress. Our sitter quietly observes that the "Swedes are laughing at us." After determining that either Mr. Sand Crab doesn't have -- or more accurately, that Mrs. Sand Crab cannot easily locate -- the correct tools and hardware for the work-around, P.G. goes home and returns with additional parts. Beckoning sainthood (or maybe because he is inwardly appalled with the state of the Sand Castle), P.G. with consultation from Patty Kiki, completes the remainder of the bed assembly.



Meanwhile, APC has also assembled the new laundry apparatus AND removed its predecessor to the garbage pile together with the mattress, boxspring, and one of the particularly sorry-looking adirondack chairs. Charlie and Tim will vie for permanent possession of the bed, it appears.

Quick showers and off to Lamont Street Grill for a bon voyage dinner for APC. Cannot believe she's really leaving/we're not extending her visit. It was a well-timed infusion of extra help and got us through a pretty taxing week. The campaign for a June visit is underway!

Day Twenty: If it's Saturday, it must be Little League.

Ahhh, springtime. When a mother's heart turns to the issue of Air-Conditioning. We are entering another heatwave with high-for-us humidity. It must be the weekend!

Our sitter arrived promptly at 9 a.m. and Aunt Patty Cake and I moseyed to "David's Bridal" in order to Hunt a Bridesmaid's Gown. Naturally, I people-watched from a chair while Erin stepped into and out of a dozen gowns. It is Grumpy-Pants-inducing as such establishments routinely require one to "go up" at least one (and several times two!) sizes. We emerged, successfully identifying a gown in the right dye lot but with no need for alterations, massive dieting, or even special undergarments. Yippee!

Next was Jack's baseball game. Granted, we were tardy to the field (thanks to Erin's propensity to befriend people who become engaged to be married). Apparently, one of Jack's fellow Standley M.S. bus-riders (who routinely teases and taunts Jack) was on the opposing team and took the occasion of a Jack strike-out to belittle him. Fast-forward past the tears and upsetment to our arrival, when I noticed immediately that Patty Kiki *and her Very Becoming Summer Haircut* was not at the scorer's table but rather smack-dab in the midst of the Giants dug-out. (Absolutely, her calming skills had been needed to regain his composure). Yes, indeedy, Jack was too worked up to play in the field for any of the innings that APC and I were actually sitting on the unyielding bleachers in the blazing noon sunshine. The sole at-bat we witnessed resulted in a fielder's choice and the 3rd out of the inning. Of course, APC wanted to go engage the mother of the aforementioned mean 6th-grader; I pointed out that a. she believes her son is the essence of perfection (quite unlike Jack's mom's opinion of her own offspring), b. I didn't want to engage in a blue vs. red auto decal battle, and c. Jack needs to learn to deal with jerks, bullies, and other assorted nincompoops. For those following the box score: Giants and Orioles tied.

For our next entertainment, Jamie's ballgame. Patty Kiki supplied SPF-challenged APC and me with her fancy, blue gazebo shade-thingy. With the help of several dads, it was erected over the Major field aluminum bleachers -- providing a zone of comfort sought by both elder spectators, and kids with pet snails in a pencil box. With this climate enhancement, APC and I settled in for a riveting game between J's Cubbies and the opposing Padres. Giving props to the Padres, they are most improved from the start of the year. However, they would succumb to the phenomenol closing pitching of Sid. But, wait, I get ahead of myself. Jamie's first at-bat was a half-hearted tap in the infield for a, say-it-with-me, Jack, 3rd out of the inning. Jamie's second at-bat, with 2 outs and the bases loaded, was a thing of wretched beauty. Count is 3-2. Then, the pitch is released and zips straight for Jamie's head. He takes a hand to shield his face, which only slightly reduces the speed of the ball at impact. Yes, sports fans, it hit his chin. Not the Schwack! sound I'd been longing to behold but after it was established that there was no blood, no missing teeth, and no permanent injury, he walked to first and a run came home. ***Of special note: I remained in the bleachers throughout the entire minutes-long establishment of player condition, although in fairness, I did slide down to the bottom-most bleacher. Aunt Patty Cake missed the entire thing, returning to ask, "someone told me Jamie got a hit?" and learning that "only if Jamie's chin was the bat!" Still AMAZING maternal restraint.*** Then he turned into this little dancing ninny -- trying to tempt the pitcher to throw it to first even though there were runners at 2nd and 3rd. He hit into a fielder's choice later in the game, if I'm not mistaken. Defensively solid performances at 3rd (2 innings), 1st (3 innings), and left field (1 inning). Will report on the State of the Chin in upcoming posts.

Home for APC and the J's to shower and scoot out the door for the latest Narnia movie, securing Aunt Patty Cake's position as Beloved. Meanwhile, I ran through BK with Tim, fed Tim and Charlie, typed up a schedule for our sitter, showered T and C, and have them in front of a brand-new Bob the Builder DVD with the fan on me.

Not your average European "Grand Tour"...

This morning, courtesy of Aunt Patty Cake's taking on Charlie chauffeur duties, was the Tour o' Kindergarden Placements in preparation for Charlie's upcoming IEP meeting.

My District minder (let's call him Pat Matt) and I convoyed throughout the Greater PB/Clairemont/Clairemont Mesa region in search of the Just-Right Classroom for next year. No monuments, no cathedrals, and no cafes...just lots of schlepping and trying to fix my face. It is a full-time, upper cortex endeavor for me to NOT grimace outwardly at the abundance of unprofessional or uninformed comments, to NOT well up at the sheer adversity of wee lives, to NOT grow sullen and withdrawn at the futility of finding a "happy place", to NOT take an occasional long-shot with my minds-eye camcorder to wonder WTF am I doing here (i.e., tangent-time: how did Miss I-went-to-Northwestern! turn into I-wear-Via-Spiga-shoes-to-traipse-about-special-education-programs). Cannot help but take note that the process truly stinks-aloud to face this task against a backdrop of Big, Bad Deployment and admittedly, elevated Mama hormones. Poor Pat Matt cannot imagine or empathize...but he did intimate that I was making progress on my personal goal of being "Less Mean and Wicked." At least my minder is clever, witty, and appreciative of the finer points of sarcastic repartee...a big step up (probably due to years of my being just that Mean and Wicked) from when I warranted stupid and/or boring minders. Or maybe, I'm willing to admit, PM just drew the very shortest possible straw.

First stop: Sessions Elementary.
Placement description: "Support Room", serving the needs of K-thru-5.
Highlight: Substitute teacher glowing about the success of instituting a schedule and routine in the support room.
Lowlight: The word "substitute" in the sentence above. Oh, wait, and that she doesn't have a special ed credential yet is in a special day class setting. (She does have a general ed credential, so there). Reference to kids with "more severe" autism needing to be transferred out of the school so that their needs could be met.
My concern: Pilot program that hasn't reached cruising altitute. Still being defined by a Central Office/"ivory annex" theory that isn't attached to needs of particular kids. More adults than children in the room.

Placement description: General education classrooms.
Highlight: Mrs. Walker's class...wherein you can almost hear the choir singing, it's so perfect in its perfection. (Jamie had Mrs. W twice, God bless her).
Lowlight: Another teacher's class...chaos -- visual and auditory and kid-related. (Jamie almost had this teacher, but I held him out of school for a month until he could be reassigned to Mrs. W. Did have a smug feeling that only comes with Confirmation of a Past Great Call by Mom).
My concern: Trying to envision Charlie producing work commensurate with what was on the walls in Mrs. W's class. Trying to picture Charlie surviving the other class...er, trying to picture the Crabbiest Queen Mum surviving Charlie not progressing in the other class.

Second stop: Bayview Terrace.
Placement description: "Moderate/severe" (the placement previously known as PACE combined with the placement previously known as ILS).
Highlight: TEACCH set-up of my 1999 dreams. Teacher has PhD. from Univ. of San Diego in autism and seemed wholly fabulous. Spacious room. A child's AAC device was incorporated into the AM circle.
Concern: Access to behavioral/communication/social peer models. No access to grade-level curricular standards. Teacher will be out for at least part of next year.

Third stop: Bay Park Elementary.
Placement description: "Non-severe".
Highlights: The teacher was great. The materials were up-to-date and in use. The calibre of instruction/work being accomplished. The classroom management strategies were used for every student if they were needed for one. (Let's not overlook the pleasant office staff!) Speech on-site 4 days per week. Have the heavens opened and poured out the sunbeams just for us?!
Concern: Didn't see a Charlie present. All the kids were independently functioning in the environment. All the kids were far more verbal than Charlie. Difficult to imagine Charlie completing the tasks we observed without significant supports, which no other children were receiving. No diapers visible either.

Fourth stop: Whitman Elementary.
Placement description: "SLI" (Speech-Language Intensive).
Highlights: Pleasant teacher. In fairness, she followed the Perfect Classroom.
Lowlight: Clearly located on the spec-ed side of the campus...DHH class on one side and another SDC down the way. Classroom was too small/square/compact for the number of kids, 4 kids shared each little circular table, and stuff was everywhere.

As Pat Matt had predicted, there was a clear stand-out winner (that being Bay Park). Alas, The Crab Matriarch still finds it challenging to go with the flow for the following reasons:

1. Show me a Charlie-like child and where they are succeeding. Didn't see a Charlie in the whole lot.
2. Bell times for Bay Park require Charlie to give up the overwhelming majority of his current services (private speech, private OT sessions, private PT, private ABA, and Regional Center home program). Start time of 9:05 a.m. and dismissal of 3:35 p.m. The only day he'd have availability for non-District services would be Thursday minimum days.
3. Very minimal "fun" on display.
4. The lure of the "Academic Red-Shirt". He's a boy, born in the summer, with a spot in preschool available to him for next year.
5. Once he sets foot in a District classroom, he must move from grade-to-grade. (In contrast to my thought that he might gain more from the WunderTeacher were he to have an extra year of maturity before he starts the social promotion march).
6. Didn't see one classroom in which I thought he would learn academic material in the teaching modality in use during the observation. I saw only group instruction, except for 2 occasions of 1-1 and several instances of do-it-yourself. 1-1 was clearly not ABA/DTT.
7. Where do you put a kid with an average IQ but who doesn't have a group-appropriate way to communicate understanding???
8. What happens when he hits the next, fun illness jag and misses more school than he attends?
9. How much of Charlie's "space-the-final-frontier" variable attention is structure, how much is electrical, and how much is chemical? What good is it for him to sit in the World's Most Nearly-Perfect Placement if all he hears are crickets chirping and if all he notices is the magnetic foam alphabet above the board?
10. What's wrong with the status quo for another year, given all the other change coming to his planet?

Pat Matt and I ended the tour-group with a perfectly cordial handshake, knowing that his would be the District offer and realizing that the world is patently unfair: there is no right answer for Charlie. We discussed the stipulations within the mediation agreement and P.M. tried to, not unkindly, point out that my lifestyle would not be adversely affected by having Charlie go on a bus and "get his needs met". The problem remains: No guarantee -- and years of evidence to the contrary -- that his needs would be met by District alone. This fact sends my lifestyle to the bottom of the priority list because, as we all know (or at least Patty Essdoubleyou, Patty Xena, and the Crab Queen to be sure agree) there's no lifestyle points if your crablet is floundering...even if you aren't there witnessing it 7-hours a day.

My head, it hurts. And, unlike Aunt Patty Cake and Patty Kiki, I don't have a salt-kissed margarita awaiting me at 5 p.m. The injustice of it all!

Open Letter to Jamie

Dear Trey, Third Son, Sweet Baby James, Jaime (pronounced hi-me)~

Autism Awareness Month (aka, April) is over now -- and I've enjoyed a "cooling-off period" from it and so I can bear to broach an important subject with you.

Kurt Vonnegut, in a brief essay on cultural relativity, concluded "It means we don't have to continue this way if we don't like it." (I may be one of the .02 % of folks who read his introduction to Free to Be You and Me). When he wrote that sentence, Mr. Vonnegut wasn't dealing with your eldest brother on a minute-by-minute basis.

There's a place for something your Kinsella grandparents cheerfully and proudly refer to as "ass-power". (Since I use the "a" word in all its various forms as well as rendering it applicable to myriad parts of speech, I think it's fair to use now in a less-perjorative time and place. Go ahead, say it out loud a couple times and giggle your fanny off). Ass-power can be defined as the most powerful form of inertia. Ass-power can keep you married. Ass-power can get you through a tough class in college. Ass-power can help you tolerate an ignorant person. Ass-power means you keep on going when you might rather give up. For sure, ass-power keeps my fanny glued in the chair at an IEP that I'd rather skip. In third-grader-speak, ass-power means that sometimes you win just by being the guy that did the same thing over and over again for the longest time. In Cub Scouts, we call this "perseverance." In the Catholic faith, it may very well qualify you for cannonization.

First point: You most assuredly are not having a carefree childhood. Most kids do not contemplate the best route from A to B within their home on the basis of a physics-type problem (calculating velocity and trajectory of their eldest sibling, with some wiggle-room factored in based upon his mood) in an effort to avoid having one's head pushed upon. The good news is by the time you hit your teens, you will be ahead of the power curve on eluding parental types within your home environs, which is a developmental milestone and most kids' first practical application of Physics. Even when I say, "suck it up" or "avoid the problem", know that I'm not minimizing the irritation factor - merely reflecting the lack of alternatives at the current time.

Second point: Ours is most assuredly not a typical family. Most families do not spend their days reaffirming meal times, entrees, the presence of croutons in the pantry. Most families do not depend on the timeliness of non-family members in order to make baseball games or practices on time. The vast majority of families do not have hot-and-cold running behaviorists to face after school and sometimes almost to bedtime. Most families do not consider the long-term calendar issues of Father's Day 2009 (e.g., "Will Father's Day be on a Sunday?") on a daily basis. I wish that I were a better example of patience for you. I hope you realize that I could not bear to introduce additional "wild cards" into our household many days -- in the form of sleep-overs, driving on class field trips, having friends in the house to play, etc.

Third point: Don't think for a minute that we (Dad, Aunt Patty Cake, and Mom) haven't noticed that you are the ONLY child of the four currently circulating this household that is capable of doing his chores without maximum physical, verbal, gestural, and emotional prompting. (Emotional prompts are not formally recognized in the behavior modification world but don't let that dissaude you while you're under this roof). You are competence, you are functionality, and you are the child Most Likely to Find Inner Peace on a Kibbutz, especially if that meant other people helped, too. These are not insignificant qualities.

Fourth point: Unlike the School District, I don't buy that the Raven Matrices are the best indicator of future academic success. (Take your brother, for instance...Jack, the one with the smarty-pants test scores who finds homework too taxing and sweatshirt location maintenance an optional mental task).
You have the good fortune to take after Dad. Dad, who first captured my attention (and later my adoration...okay, and my not-so-occasional heckling) with the admission he started assignments in college THE DAY THEY WERE ASSIGNED. Dad, who wasn't afraid of the editing/revision process. Dad, who doesn't thrive on the adrenaline-rush of last-minute cramming. Like Dad, you have that ability to "keep on swimming" to get something done, to not get overwhelmed by the marathon (especially when you are only running 100-yards of it), and to find some intangible reinforcer from within for doing your best.

Fifth point, and bringing us full-circle back to Mr. Vonnegut's premise: This is not your life forever...just for right-now. Dad will come home. We will move to another place someday. Maybe you'll even have your own room. God willing, Tim and Charlie will continue to make progress. Eventually, I hope that you will go to college and have a reversal of fortune: Maximum freedom with From-afar Oversight. You will not be somebody's brother or the "meanest mom on the block's" son.

Most people don't know how hard you've had to work. They don't have to know that by age one, you had a diagnosis of cerebral palsy. People doesn't remember a boy going to special education infant/toddler program and then special day class preschool. Only immediate family (and a gaggle of respite workers, of course) were privy to the "Iron Lung" routine to get you through 80% of your overnights from age 1 to 5. or compliantly accepting your "pah" medicine once we figured out that asthma was not the only villain.

There's a big part of me that cringes when your Little League team lines up, runs for times, in order for Coach to e-mail the roster with each boy's times to all parents. That person wants to stand on the bleachers and announce, "He's been in Physical Therapy for his whole life!" when you trip and stumble the first step out of the batter's box. That person wants to take your otherwise-wonderful coach aside and explain that your orthodics don't fit inside your cleats and request a 4/10-second deduction (on the time promulgated to the parents) accordingly to offset some of the time it takes you to crash to the dirt and pick yourself back up. The me that knows you practiced baseball nearly every day since the season ended last June. But there you are, oblivious to the comparisons, and pleased as punch to be there. So I bite my lip and try to learn from my 9-year-old about resiliency, the grace of no-excuses, and the benefit of living in the moment.

One of my favorite writers is Erma Bombeck. She wrote about her family's antics and wrote a column ("I Always Loved You Best", 1971) about what she wanted each of her three sons to know. To her middle son, she wrote, "I've always loved you the best because you drew a dumb spot in the family and it made you stronger." That Erma was a funny and wise woman. It almost sounds like she had known you but was writing to me.



If Erma had been your mother, I think she might have written the following:

Dear Jamie,
I always loved you best.

You were the newborn who waited a week after your due-date following two week-early siblings. You were my first false-alarm. You were my second false-alarm. And when you decided to make your appearance, my inclination was to stay home. In fact, you gave us minutes to relocate the obstetrician and certainly not the hours needed to page the anesthesiologist and roll that beautiful epidural set-up into the delivery room. You were drama, you were fire, you were here.
You were the one without a middle name until your discharge, when the birth certificate lady threatened to put "James NONE" on the form.
You were the child who wasn't opposed to staying INSIDE the playpen. (Considering what was OUTSIDE the playpen, that makes a lot of sense). Eventually, you found it easier to tear an exit hole in the side webbing of the playpen than to invest energy to attempt to pull yourself up and over the side. You had patience and perhaps you guessed (rightfully) that my reaction times to the sound of a skull smacking the hard-wood floor were no longer World Class. You were the child to show an appreciation for the Long View -- that hole in the playpen gave you both an out but also an entree to the relative serenity of your Own Space.
You were the boy who has received the hand-me-down (and often matching) shirts in bulk: first from Jack and then from Tim. You wore the clothes that I was already weary of seeing in my laundry basket and upon boys who bore a strong resemblance to you. You were deja vu, and you were the one who retired much of the baby gear.
You were coughing and gagging and choking and ER visits. You were a different kind of chronic worry.
Unlike our fourth son, you actually have a baby book. But unlike the first and second sons, yours may have a bit of poetic license and was not subject to painfully-accurate fact-checking. (In fact, some photos may be someone else's kid altogether).
You were the one who got to play T-ball and without an aide. You were the one who taught me that the social vigilance of parenting Tim and Jack could give way to a longer-leash. That said, you were also the one who flapped his arms around the baseball diamond, not as a "stim" but rather as a balancing technique.
You were the one who got to walk to and from school by himself. Because that was the only option available. You remain the only of our kids who can reliably remind me what I need to sign or send in. You say, "Mom, my lunch account has a negative balance again." after numerous prior dispatches of "Mom, I have $2 left." and "Mom, I really need a check for lunch."
You were title pages and tables of contents. You were creative stories with drawings that matched. Your Mother's Day writings did not sound like an adult "helped".
You were baseball cards, organized piles, and a brother walking through the middle. You could re-sort them after a few moments of mourning.
You were dressing yourself and letting you go to school in what you picked. You were self-sufficiency. You were packing-your-own-snack, whatever it was. You were pride in handing out the $1 box of Little Debbie oatmeal cookies with cream in the middle as the game snack, oblivious to the utter cheapskateness of your purveyor.
You were shyness. You were deliberation. You were evidence that kids with our genetic codes could be unimpulsive. You were the proof that autism was not the only game in town.
You were the re-calibration of our family.

Love,
Mom

Day 19: And they all wore their grumpy-pants

When a day includes an early-am therapy session, a contentious IEP meeting, an unrewarded search, and tantrum-filled dinner hour ... oh, and back-to-back meetings in the evening, it does not present as enjoyable.

1. Jack has lost a $35 Troop 506 sweatshirt. It was pristine, it was warm, it was embroidered, it was a fetching shade of forest green, and thus, he must leave it somewhere on perhaps its 3rd donning. Moreover, he couldn't possibly remember where he might have worn it and therefore, can be of absolutely-zero (maybe less!) assistance in locating it. Enter Aunt Patty Cake, who took on the Herculean role of "finder of lost objects". She tackled a number of closets over the past several days to no avail. She has thoroughly checked the vehicles. Even Crabby Queen Mom has entered the Potential Zone of Possumage in the hunt. Nothing. Crabby Queen Mom also called Sr. Hilda to check the CCD lost/found, e-mailed the troop to check the troop lost/found, and tried to check the lost/found at Jack's middle school. None of the lost/founds can be easily checked via phone. It is grim. It is frustrating. And, most of all, it makes one want to check whether Jack's cranium is connected to anything...anything at all.

2. Charlie did his finest rendition yet of the singing bullfrog from the old Bugs Bunny/Looney Tunes cartoon. You know the one who dances and sings, "Hello, My baby, Hello, My Darling" with an audience of one but sits mute -- listening to the crickets -- when it's time to perform for the veritable talent agent. That's Charlie...mute, silent, out-to-lunch and definitely out to make me look like a hallucinating ninny. "He talks...he really can talk. He can push the buttons...he really can push the buttons. He loves music...honest and for true!" Maybe 20 words were produced -- under duress -- during an entire 30-minute speech therapy session. Oh, and just to prove the point, he refused to participate in the music therapy portion. And, for that extra Show of Force, he acted like he'd never once used his "talker" (augmentative communication device).

3. Dropped him, with some requisite drama -- natch!, at preschool and zoomed onward to Jack's IEP. Barely able to soldier any positive thoughts about my own son's competency at basic skills of living (see previous posts on ability to get squared away for school, complete homework/projects, dress himself for practice/game, or take medicine compliantly), it was not pleasant to enter the room of "edumacators".

For the record, present were:
Case Mis-Manager
Site-Based "Diagnostic Resource Teacher", playing "Administrative Designee"
Program "Diagnostic Resource Teacher"
Program "DRT" from the LEGAL DEPT., er "Facilitator"
School Psychologist
Occupational Therapist
Speech/Language Pathologist
Special Education Ombudsperson
Autism Specialist
District Audiologist (and resident carmudgeon)
Assistive Technology Specialist
Me
For about 40 minutes, a general ed teacher -- for the reading/writing specialist independent evaluation report, the District brought Jack's MATH teacher.
For the first 15 minutes, a school nurse.

Denied entry was a visiting "community medicine pediatrician" b/c I started counting heads and felt that it was ridiculous to have yet another person AND b/c they didn't ask for permission until I was on the spot. Probably looked like a crab about to molt (aka, itchy she-crab)...oh, well.

Highlighted quote: "When Mrs. A--- wins the lottery and moves to another school district, the IEP needs to be able to follow Jack."
Clearly, this is a fantasy for the 2nd largest school district in the state of California.

For the purposes of not becoming an "Ambien" to the masses (okay, handful) of blog-readers, I will spare further detail beyond this simple truism:
It was both painful and grotesque.
(And this sad fact: We repeat the exercise next Thursday).

4. Dinner hour was especially unpleasant...Tim was irritatingly obsessive about dinner components, the pay-out (aka, dessert), etc. His constant -- and I mean CONSTANT -- interruption led me to erase a phone message from someone active-duty at ECRC. Yes, ECRC is "Expeditionary Combat Readiness Command" or the umbrella command to which Major Crab is attached. We will never know who was calling or what they wanted...this combined with the still-hiding sweatshirt has me utterly peeved. To further send me on a negative trajectory, suddenly NOT ONE CHILD WILL EAT KRAFT MACARONI & CHEESE. This, friends and genteel readers, is utterly UNSAT (that's unsatisfactory in civilian lingo). I mean I didn't try to substitute the grocery generic brand...I stuck with "the cheesiest". I was loyal to the brand. I did not falter, I did not waver, I stayed true to the Gold Standard of Orangeness. Just a symptom of the malaise of the household.

5. PLAGUE ONE, REVISITED: For the record, the stinkbugs -- as our temps again climb into the 70s -- are back ... with a veneagance! They were particularly aggressive and, unlike the only North American marsupial, make not only unattractive and some might say, CRUNCHY pets but are ill-mannered.

6. Random Note: Speaking of our friends the ONAM (only N.A. marsupial), for all you Possum Lovers, tonight's Jeopardy broadcast featured the words "U.S. marsupial"...thanks to Patty Grace, Aunt Patty Cake immediately asked the right question and had the happy side-effect of Feeling Smart Again. Maybe tomorrow will be a sunnier day.

Day Eighteen: Overheard in the Sand Castle & Latest Plague Unleashed

Morning dawned at the Castle.

Jack offered his usual and highly-annoying commentary. Below is a mere sampling.

Regarding medicine: "I'm not going to take Strattera. I hate it. It is poison, like cyanide. Don't you know what that is?"

Erin notes in the background, "Just the word Strattera makes him go into involuntary ....

Upon the zillionth directive to pour a drink and present himself to his mother for the med: "Whenever I even think about Strattera, I feel nauseous."

To which the Wicked, Lost-all-semblance-of-anything-resembling-patience-or-empathy Crab Queen responds: "Whenever I even hear you talking about Strattera, it makes me want to strangle you silly. Get over here and get it overwith."

But, wait, it's never too late for the Glorious Lunch Money Panic: "I don't have my 2-dollars...number one, I'm going to starve and number two, I'm going to be late!"

To which the Wicked Crab Queen responds (on virtual autopilot): "Money is in my purse."

Earlier, however, I did notice -- after Tim tried to whack me with his left arm -- a line of little sores from his elbow to his mid-forearm. Seven of 'em. Hmmm, thought I, could be bug bites. Hmmm, expounded Auntie Patty Cake, could be acne. Hmmm, wondered I aloud (taking a dramatic cue from Jack), could be that flesh-eating bacteria from exposure to middle school gym class!

Demonstrating great poise and composure, I slapped some hydrocortisone cream on them and covered them with bandages and sent him on the school bus. Did e-mail the nurse at his middle school, which he'll arrive at about 1:40 p.m., a request for a professional medical opinion. I have not looked at webmd, which is Really Restrained of me!

Of course, frequent readers will recognize that this is potentially Plague Three!