"The best way to behave is to misbehave." - Mae West

Off and on all afternoon I've been reading A Room of Mama's Own, a blog written (I hope I have this right) by a Stay at home mom with one Autistic son and one Neurotypical daughter, whose husband is a sex addict. As you can imagine, its a fairly complex blog and I've been reading it sorted by tags and topics. Due to her son's Autism (and her own status as someone who uses the word Codependent to describe herself) she talks a lot about techniques for changing behavior ... how we expect children to be able to, somehow, control themselves if only the right carrot or the right stick is found. Its really fascinating reading, and a great site.

So, one of the cars (the FIGBASH car) has a leak in a rear tire. We took it out to Sears at the Mall to have it repaired, largely because a) they're open late, and b) its a large open space where E can run around while we wait for the car to be done, rather than having to sit still in a dull waiting room.

We went to Macy's, because I keep hoping the Martha Stewart Collection cast iron enameled pots will somehow again drop to the miraculously low price they were for a single day before Thanksgiving, and because Josh (bless him) is toying with the idea of buying a FryDaddy^TM. (I have informed him that he can't do that unless he can somehow find more counter space. As it is the bread machine doesn't see regular use because its too much of a PITA to move the stuff around it.) While we were there, predictably (because of all the breakable dishes) it was the only time all night that E did not want desperately to hold my hand or otherwise cling to me. Instead, he wanted to RUN WILD! Picking him up, trying to hold his hand, or anything that otherwise might be interpreted (by him) as restraining him (like, say, touching him) resulted in him going all "limp cat" and screeching.

Then, he saw the Fiestaware.

Now, to understand this story, you must know this: I have a secret dish passion. I try, very hard and mostly successfully, to keep it under wraps, but it lurks under the surface at all times. I love beautiful dishes. I love the way light reflects off their surface. I love the feel of a sturdy plate in the hand. I love the curve of a footed bowl or the line of a well designed pitcher. If we had room, I would fill the walls with dishes, just to look at them, be around them, enjoy them.

But we're poor, and so I don't give in. I just stand in the store and look at them, longingly.

There I was, staring at the Fiestaware display in Macy's, my breathing a little shallow and rapid, reaching out here and there to caress a butter dish or slide one finger down the side of a teapot. And suddenly, my son was standing there beside me, his tiny hand slipping into mine. He was transfixed.

"They're beautiful," he whispered.

"Yes, they are. Which color do you like best?"

He stood very still and surveyed the display. Peacock, Ivory, Sunflower, Scarlet, Plum, Black, Cobalt and Tangerine. I watched him look them over carefully, with a critical eye.

"The red one." he said, with a clear tone of certainty.

And that's when I gave in to impulse. I leaned down to him, whispered in his ear. "Evan," I said, "if you can be respectful the rest of the time we're here - no crying, no whining, no running, no flopping around -- holding my hand or daddy's and being calm at all times, I will buy you a red plate before we leave."

And it shouldn't have worked, but it did. For the next twenty minutes he walked next to me, held my hand, was calm and collected, as we looked at objects and named them. I let him run a little wild in the mattress room while his father inspected the finer points of deep fryer baskets, but otherwise he was a model gentleman. Then we walked back over to the plates, and I let him pick the one he wanted (dinner size, salad size, or bowl) and he picked the dinner plate, and I paid for it, and we took it home.

We're not having supper at home tonight, so I'll be interested to see if he remembers "the red plate". I probably should feel guilty about bribing him like that, but I don't. Somehow, buying him the red plate - something that makes me as happy as it makes him - doesn't seem like a bribe. More, it seems like an excuse to indulge myself.

“Habit and routine have an unbelievable power to waste and destroy.” -- Henri de Lubac

For some crazy reason, last week, the week that had no format, no schedule, no routine, full of changes and adaptations every single day, that week went fine.

This week, the week where E is supposed to be "back on schedule" - back to daycare, back to his regular schedule, this week is a mess.

He's refusing to nap at daycare. He's hitting everyone (me, his father, the other kids at Daycare, Sarah), and sometimes does this thing where he turns into a writhing ball of flailing arms and legs, often lying on his back and kicking and holding a stuffed animal in each and flinging them around with wild abandon. He doesn't seem upset when he's in dervish mode - in fact, I think he's doing it because its fun - but its a little weird and scary to watch. I'm trying to chalk it up to being (almost) two, but his father voiced to me a concern yesterday that "maybe its something he's eating that makes him go crazy like that."

Perhaps. But this morning he woke up at five fifteen, raring to go, begging for milk - no, juice - no, milk - no, juice - Oh! the world is ending - Milk! Juice! Milk!, and then commenced to thrash around on the bed in this same wild way, rabbit in one hand, elephant in the other, kicking his legs and slamming the animals together. At five fifteen. In the morning.

I finally got him a drink and got him to snuggle in the bed with me, but he never fell back asleep. By seven fifteen he was up and dressed and ready to go, but rubbing his eyes and being grumpy and sleepy already. I don't envy Sarah for her day with him. We get a note back from her every day, outlining what he ate and how many diapers and what they did for the day, and on Monday the note said read "Tough day today. As M (one of the other toddlers) said "E was a wild man today."

I can't help but believe that he misses being at home.

This weekend we're going camping in Vermont. Four days of family and friends togetherness time. I wonder if, by Sunday or so, I'll have a different, sunnier boy on my hands. And I wonder if, come Tuesday or Thursday of next week, he'll be back to dervish mode again.

"Life isn't a matter of milestones but of moments" - Rose Kennedy

Another milestone, of sorts, on Saturday:

E had his very first all-out, back-arched, red-faced, screaming tantrum in a public place. (In the Flagship retail store of Our Esteemed Employer, in fact, so bonus points for that.)

Two things stand out for me -

First, hauling a howling toddler down four flights of stairs and out the front door wasn't nearly as embarrassing as I thought it would be. "Oh look, another meltdown" was the only comment I heard on the way out, and it was spoken in an amused tone by a very grandmotherly woman.

Second, being a toddler must just suck beyond all reason. You have things you want to communicate, and you try and try and try, but you just can't. Then, giants confine you, restrict you, toss you on your back and remove your pants in public places, wipe you with cold cloths, kiss you, and expect you to always be cheerful about it. You're too hot, you're hungry, you're thirsty, you're diaper is wet, you're uncomfortable, or you just want walk around and you can't make these giants understand what it is, exactly, that you need.

So, yeah, not embarrassed but rather a combination of amused and greatly empathetic to the combination of factors that caused him to melt down at that particular moment in such a spectacular way.

There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval. - Santayana

I got to be that parent this morning. You know the one. The one who sends her sick, screaming child off to daycare while she and her spouse both trundle off to work. You know the one. The uncaring, rude one. The one about whom other parents say "What could she have been thinking?"

In my defense, however, he asked to go. And he's not all that sick - just a little sniffle (that he caught from my care provider's daughter) and a severe case of diaper rash. But in getting him dressed this morning, you'd think the world was coming to an end.

E has never really suffered from diaper rash. We had one tiny patch of it last summer, but otherwise nothing. I have a tube of Boudreaux's Butt Paste that I got at my baby shower that we'd never opened, and that was the only "ointment" in the house. Over the last three days, however, E has developed the most epic case of diaper rash you can imagine. A red, raw bottom that clearly hurts him.

Although E was restless and cranky last night, this morning he was ok until I took off his diaper and put the ointment on. The application of the ointment seemed to be agony for him (his father had to hold his upper body and feet while I put it on), and then he fought and fought and fought against his diaper. Once we had the diaper on, he kept pulling and tugging at it -- "Pooop," he wailed. "Pooop. Pooooop. Poooooooooooop."

"No poop, honey," I told him, "its the medicine. The medicine will make it feel better."

"Poooooooooooop!" More wailing and tugging on his diaper. Then he grabbed my hand and directed it to his bottom. "Poop!" E looked at me with big, pleading eyes. Mamma, there is something yucky in my diaper. Why won't you clean it up?

Finally, knowing the time was ticking by, I laid him back down and decided to remove the ointment that was causing him so much distress. Then, as he's laying on his back and I'm removing his diaper, he sneezed.

And oh! what a sneeze. Panic and consternation from the little boy - clearly his head has just exploded. Tiny hands fly up to wipe away the goo. He opens his mouth to cry out and the mucus from his nose drips directly into the back of his throat, gagging him. I have no choice but to pick him up. He's naked, covered in snot and diaper cream, wailing. There is snot in his mouth, on his hands, all over his face, and in his hair (and, shortly, in mine). He's slippery and hard to hold on to.

All his wants in the world is his dadda, but Daddy is dressed for work and can't pick him up.

Josh and I look at each other. "I'll stay home with him," I say in a somewhat unconvincing tone.

"Can you?"

"Well, not really, no. It would cause a disaster. But we can't send him to Sarah's like this."

Having just started a new job two months ago, I have no sick time accrued, plus I have work that urgently needs to be completed today or disaster will strike, but it is abundantly clear that no one other than his parents should be asked to deal with the wailing, frustrated, miserable toddler I hold in my arms.

"No, I'll stay home," Josh says, equally unconvincingly. He has plenty of sick time, but given that its now nearly 7:30 am it will be difficult to find someone to cover the desk for him on such short notice.

We debate our options (asking one of our parents to watch him, splitting the day), and find that there aren't any. All the while my naked, slimy, squirming, miserable son wails and thrashes in my arms. He desperately wants "down" but I don't want to put him down on the floor until I've cleaned him up, at least a little.

Eventually, E calms down, lets me wrap him in a towel, and we get him cleaned up. Dad has the bright idea of putting some Neosporin on E's bottom, since it has an analgesic in it, and after a moment or two that seems to do the trick. E points towards the door. "Go go bye? Go go bye?"

By this point, E won't let me touch him. (I'm certain he thinks I'm just going to smear some other revolting substance on him.) He picks up his discarded shirt and carries it to his father, all the time repeating "Go go bye?" in an increasingly insistent tone. Dad has E dressed in a flash, and before I know it they're going down the stairs and E is waiving bye-bye to me and blowing kisses as he does every morning.

After they left (I could hear another struggle going on out by the car, but I didn't look out the window to check. I'm assuming E wanted nothing to do with his car-seat.) I sat on the steps for about ten minutes, hoping we'd done the right thing. Tonight when they get home I'll give him an overdue bath, then let him run around pantsless for a while. Hopefully that will encourage things to clear up, at least some.

But now I'm one of "those" parents. And I hope I won't be judged too harshly for it when its nap-time and my son is screaming as his diaper is changed.

Because I'm too busy judging myself harshly, thank you very much.

"Don't call the world dirty because you forgot to clean your glasses" - Aaron Hill

E is a master of the headbutt. Typically this means that we will be in some situation where he has his back to me, and I'm trying to get him to do something he doesn't want to do (say, put on pants or lie down in the bed) and he rears forward then thrashes back, driving his hard, hard little head into my nose or face.

About three weeks ago, he did this and I was amazed he didn't break my glasses.

About a week after that, I took off my glasses to clean them and they broke in my hand.

So I wore my contacts for a while, but then I somehow lost the right one, and that was the last right contact I had, so I had to have my existing lenses put into a new pair of frames ($45.00 - not bad, actually).

Then, a week later, E whacked me again, so I had to get another pair of frames for my lenses. Another $45.00.

Then, on Saturday (I'd had the new frames for about three days at this point), the new frames broke. Just broke while I was taking off my sweater. At least this time it wasn't the temple or the nose, but rather the area at the bottom of the left eye, so it can be (and is) fixed with clear packing tape (for a while). We think it broke because the lenses were actually not quite the right shape for the frame they were shoehorned into, and the stress caused the plastic frame to let go.

So Monday I started the process of trying to get a copy of my prescription from my former optometrist. (They've moved across time, and its no longer easy for me to get to them.) They hemmed and hawed about giving me a copy -- I haven't had an exam since 2004 (I should have had one in 2006 but was pregnant and they said there was "no point" in doing an exam because the shape of your eyes change (from fluid or some such) while you're pregnant. Then I was busy with the baby. Then they moved.) After spending a full day on the phone with them I finally got them to fax me a copy of the prescription (with a big EXPIRED! scrawled along the top of it) and gave it to this nice optometric shop that is within walking distance of my day job. They fixed me up with two pairs of frames for $29 each, plus lenses, for a total of about $190 for two pairs of glasses.

I picked up the first pair today. They're sturdy and serviceable and mostly metal and not bad for cheap eyeglasses. I'm no longer looking at the world through a haze of packing tape, and that's good.

I wonder how long they'll last.

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be" - D.Adams

Its 5 pm. E is still in his PJs. I just took a shower. It would be an understatement to say that we've had a lazy day.

Josh and I both had plans that got canceled at the last minute. E and his dad took a three hour nap, while I lay on the sofa, being indolent and reading. E's dad kindly let me sleep late. Now that its supper time we're all up and ready to start our day. We've left E in his footy PJs all day because -- well, for no real reason. There just didn't seem to be any point in getting him dressed.

I'm not what I would call "a natural" at mothering. Oh, I love my son and I take great pains to make sure that he gets fed and played with and read too and snuggled. (After all, he's too cute not to snuggle and hug.) But I have a sort of "intellectual" approach to it. I sometimes expect him to be rational when its not really realistic for me to expect that. And sometimes I just have no idea what to do.

Today, for example, we should probably be outside. That would be the "right" thing to do. Time with him is so precious that I feel like I should make every day like today -- days when mamma and daddy are both home and we have nothing on the schedule -- an adventure, a special treat. But instead, we've napped and E and Daddy played ABC on the computer, and we've read some, but also mamma and daddy spent some time sitting on the sofa like vegetables (if vegetables read books) watching E play on the floor. Right now I think E and his father are wrestling while I'm supposed to be getting dressed.

One thing I love about E's dad is how natural he is as a father. He instinctively knows how to discipline, how to soothe, and how to entertain. Its one of the things I love about him and one of the things that I envy, too. Its also the reason that I'm pretty sure I'd never "make it" as a Stay-at-home-mom. I'd be too driven by the checklist (must do dishes, must make lunch, -- now its craft time .... here, son, lets play this game) and unable to make the most of the spontaneous moment.

As E gets older, I hope I'll get better at this -- that both entertaining and duty will be come more of an instinct and less of a checklist. In part, I'm sure, it will get better because we'll be able to communicate more easily. I'm not one of those mothers who an hear her son make string of sounds and know "Oh, his sock is wet." Most of the idea I have no idea what he wants, and I'm sure he's as frustrated by his attempts to communicate with me as I am in trying (desperately, sometimes) to understand what he's trying to tell me. Often, he seems to be warning me about Gungins. That will sort itself out over time, I think.

Right now, however, its like a tiny incontinent elf with a strong self will is living in our house. And that's ok with me. I just hope he's willing to put up with me until I figure out how to do it.

"Love is a reciprocal torture" - Proust

E has recently adopted the habit of screaming as though he were being branded every time we put him into his car-seat. Yesterday afternoon I got to see this new and delightful behavior firsthand for the first time.

After Josh finished strapping him in and had gotten in the car himself, he turned to me --

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Every time I have to do that, I feel like Doctor Mengele."

"Honey, don't worry. Doctor Mengele wouldn't have felt bad about it."