Birds are A-Holes

*Warning for absolutely horrible language. The following account is completely true and maybe only slightly embellished due to hysteria. 

Nola, my pain in the ass cat.

Nola, my cat, escaped (again) last night when I forgot to latch the front door after letting Roxy out. It was raining and I didn't hear the door not close. Also, I was on the phone with my friend from Autism Art Project, so I was distracted. I hung up with her and was trying to get Morgan into bed... He kept getting up and wandering around.

That's when shit got real and my actions stopped making sense.

I heard Morgan yell, "CAT! Cat's out!" and he was freaking out, so I ran outside into the mothereffing storm. No jacket, no flashlight, and zero common sense.

Nola viewing her domain.

Ugh. I was yelling for this cat, shaking bushes and trees. She ran out to me and then back into a bush, just to be a jerk, so I followed her, trying to grab her. Did you know cats are really freakin' slick when they're wet? And dark cats are really hard to see in the dark without a flashlight?

I lost sight of her until I just barely heard a peeping sound over the booming thunder and howling wind. I saw the big bush next to my downstairs (directly underneath me) neighbor's patio moving wildly. Nola had climbed up into the damned thing. 

Apparently, she'd seen where the mockingbirds (whatever kind, they're asshole birds) had built a nest and stuck two of their babies. She snagged a baby before I could grab her scruff and ran into the hedges, which are mean ass holly bushes. Also, I'm convinced snakes are in there.

I then made it my goal to chase her away from the baby bird. In the rain. And thunder. And lightning. So, basically, I would chase Nola some and then stop and scream as lightning would streak across the sky, then run. I went across the damned parking lot and toward the "swamp," got soaking wet, busted my ass, and had nasty mud between my toes. I was visualizing snakes, rats, and God only knows what else in the dark.

I came back inside the apartment and Thomas gave me the third degree about our delinquent cat, why I didn't have her, and why I wasn't interested in nabbing her. I mean, the little shit tried to KILL a baby bird! How dare she? I was seriously indignant. He wasn't seeing things my way, so he went to look for her, but no dice. All I could think about was that poor baby bird, which doesn't make sense. I loathe birds. I have a serious phobia of birds. I will panic if a bird comes near me. And, hell, I could have been hit by lightning! Or bitten by a snake!

The storm eventually got worse and Nola came inside because I'm a tenderhearted asshole and stood outside getting wet while calling her.

This morning, I could hear the momma bird squawking her terrifying ass off, looking for her baby. Really, she was negligent for not watching her kids, right? Who leaves their children overnight? I came outside and looked over the balcony. It was a miracle! I saw the baby bird, still breathing, on the ground! It was in the mean ass holly bushes!

So, I faced my phobia, because I'm a good person, dammit, grabbed a clean washcloth, and went downstairs. Immediately,that momma bird started on the attack, trying to peck my eyes out. "Just effing stop!" I yelled. But she didn't. I was terrified.

I picked up that baby bird ever so gently and that's when the momma bird went ten shades of psycho. She was swooping and screaming, cawing like nothing I've ever heard in my entire life right next to my ear. I had to persist in my task of picking up her baby, though. It was like I was on a mission from God. Or something.

I had to drop the baby in the nest like it was a lump of hot coal because, dammit, my life was at stake. I could have died. That damn bird wasn't grateful to have her kid back! She was still dive bombing me and trying to peck my very brains out!

Unfit mother bird. 

She's been yelling at my door all damned day and tried to take my head off when I took Morgan to school. I mean, she got her kid back! I wasn't even the nest wrecker! She ought to be glad I don't call Avian CPS on her!

What a bitch of a bird. Gah. No wonder I have phobias.

Unless it's a box turtle, I'm never rescuing another animal ever again. Ever.

*My friend tried to convince me that the bird is my spirit animal and this fight with the momma bird is symbolic of me protecting my kids or some such crap. You know what? My spirit animal is a cheetah. Cheetahs eat birds and wake in the morning to piss excellence. 

My Life on Lupron

*If you're just joining me, or have come aboard in the last couple of months, I have severe endometriosis. I've already had a radical hysterectomy at the age of 27. Since last fall, I have been in a lot of pain because of a reemergence of my endometriosis that we've found to be inoperable because of the locations of the endometrials. Now, I'm on a six month course of Lupron - a drug that shuts off all estrogen production/targets estrogen cells - to kill these little clusters of hell. 



Lupron is the effing devil.

I'm going into week three or four of Lupron and this shit is making me insane. Certifiably. I think?

Apparently, it feels weirder if you've had a hysterectomy. You get to actually feel it attacking the endometrials. I think it's like the "pew-pew" battles seen in Star Wars. Imagine tiny ships shooting little lasers into the endos, okay? They just load that little estrogen cell filled thing up with medicine, it gets full to bursting, then BOOM! They knock the hell out of that thing, draining all of the estrogen out and save the day!

The pew-pew fight moves on to another endo and the battle resumes. Some of the endos fight back, and that's when the swelling occurs. Can you tell I've had time to think about this?

Lupron puts you in menopause, which I'd already be in, but I went off of my meds for that keep me out of it.

Menopause and I don't mix, okay?

I'm having hot flashes that make me wish the Polar Vortex was still hanging out. Meanwhile, everything outside is swampy feeling. I get that I live near a damn swamp, but does the air have to feel so freakin' offensive? It's not just hot, it's like I step into a wet towel fresh out of the sauna from hell.

My apartment's thermostat is set to 75 degrees to keep the other inhabitants comfortable. However, all ceiling fans are going full blast at all times. I'm guilty of sticking my head in the freezer, sticking the ice pack thingies under my knees or arms to cool down, and yelling to an empty apartment, "Just stop moving! I have to cool off!"

I want to move to Antarctica.

I'm saying stuff out loud without meaning to. You know, more than usual. That self editing thing I'm really bad at? Oh God, it's just gone, if it was ever there. I've asked the kids to breathe quietly, to stop smiling so loudly, and then apologized. I've told the dog she's too fat, the cat that she's an embarrassment to felines, and then cried. I've told my husband he can't touch me, then cried when he didn't hug me. I've cried over insurance commercials.

To add insult to injury, my stupid hair is falling out and coming in gray. I'm pretty sure this crap is getting chopped off. Not that this is an irrational decision (ahem, people who have said that).

You see, I'm a hot flashin' mess. Not literally a hot "flashing" mess, but a hot flashin' mess. Whatever.

And the food. Oh, wow... the food. I'm going to turn into a Lemon Creme cookie before this is over with. Or a container of Hagen Daaz Salted Caramel ice cream. I have very little willpower.

Just a snack

I'm so damned ragey. I have rage. I can't write about it, or much else, though, because my brain ditched me somewhere around the time that damn needle was put into my buttcheek.

I have these thoughts? And when I think them? They sound awesome. Then, when I write them down? I can't decipher (see what I did?) them sober or drunk. Not that I'm getting drunk, because that causes more friggin bloating and less operational thinking.

So, what do I do with this rage? I thank baby Jesus in swaddling clothes that I'm on Prozac every single day and I try to stay away from the general public. True story.

It's been easy to stay away from the public for the last couple of weeks because it's either been raining or I've been so swollen, I've needed to stay inside. I can't waddle to the pool. But, with sunnier weather on the way and these fluid pills finally working, that hermit plan is kind of over. I need to remember, "inside voice."

I also make really awful memes. You're not seeing them because they, well, suck.

See?

Let's just hope that that the remaining five months of this crap are quick, without incident, and my kids finally get to go swimming because they have to get out of the house and stop leaving Legos and trains everywhere. 

I also need to keep, "Jessi, inside voice," on loop in my brain, I suppose. 

Sometimes, this female crap sucks. 

It's Not You, It's Me- Sort Of

*Earlier this week, I deactivated my main personal Facebook account. I'm running my Deciphering Morgan page through another account I set up for autism only people and people that "get it." I'm not as active on that profile. Thus far, I'm not in any of my private groups, I haven't liked but a few pages and I think I'll keep it this way for a while. 

I'm on Facebook Island. It's completely selfish.

Judging from the pm's I'm getting from old friends on my DM page, some people think I might either be (a) dead or (b) mad at them.

I'm not either. I'm just in need of a break from neurotypical bliss and from first world neurotypical problems, among other things which I'm not at liberty to talk about here.

I'm being selfish and I'm not even apologizing for it. I should have done another profile years ago.

No offense, but I could give a crap about what paint color you're choosing or what little Becky did which is certifying her as a MENSA candidate this week. Harsh? Yes. Honest? Oh God, yes. Sometimes I feel like screaming, "I wish my first word problems were as mild as yours!!!"

It's hard, for me, as the mom of an autistic boy, to see pictures of kids that Morgan used to go to school with or play with when he was really young doing things that he can't do because homework takes up so much extra time. Or because we don't know how he'd do and honestly can't afford to figure it out. Or just being given the chance to be a kid with other kids outside of school. You know, play dates?  Or when they're doing things which aren't Thomas related. I love that my kid has a passion, but I wouldn't mind if he would also love to talk about something other than those trains.

It stabs when I see pictures of kids younger than Morgan on bikes without training wheels. Which, other than the adult trike he test drove once, he's never ever been able to do.

Or, when someone posts a pic of their son who used to attend school with Morgan having a sleepover, or a friend over. I'm not saying that Morgan doesn't have friends over ever, but the main friend he does have over who "gets it" is about to move an hour away.

"But Jessi, you're also the parent of a neurotypical kid, doesn't he matter?"

Yes, he does.  He matters just as much as Morgan.

Thus, I'm caught in two worlds. Every time I open Bay's notebook from kindy, I have this funny stab in my heart because his handwriting, that emerging skill, is neater in some ways than his brother, who is three years older than him. His coloring is better than Morgan's. Give that kid a paper and glue project and he nails it in a way that, due to a lack of fine motor skills, Morgan cannot right now.

Bay told me the other night that he's afraid of being smarter than Morgan one day. That he's afraid his brother will hate him. And that he wants to stop school because of that.

Except I think that Bay is sad sometimes at school. He says (and this is confirmed by a couple of the support staff at school), that no one really plays with him at recess. So I'm worried, as his mom.

I feel like it's Groundhog Day, where I'm trying to "teach" social skills to a child in order for him to make friends, although Bay's been on about a hundred play dates.

You're never supposed to compare children, whether they're your own or yours to someone else's. But I do it and it kills me.

I'm not bitter or mourning a life I've never had. I'm just, for right now, choosing to ignore the lives that aren't mine.

And, really, did you want me to be watching for signs of autism in your baby/home videos? Because I was, I really was. That's what we autism parents do, you know, we watch for signs of one of our own. Mention that your child has a an "obsession," and we're on that like hotcakes. Post pictures of a kid lining things up? Yep, we're talking about it.

So you see, it's not so much me... it's you. I'm being a bigot right now in that I can't be around anyone but those who have autism or other disabilities in their lives, even though I'm not saying much when compared to how much I normally say. I also was afraid of offending people, for a change. I don't want to do that.

I know it's understood, but I feel the need to clarify. You cannot help that you have neurotypical only kids any more than I can help that I've been blessed with an autistic child and a neurotypical child.


For now, I'm staying on Facebook Island. At least until I'm done taking Megace and this crap stops making me nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake.

It Sounds Sort of like "Horse": Teaching My Sons Morals

I'm always looking for ways to teach my sons about morals, which would be a gray area for me in some places. Morality, it would seem, falls into the "do as I say, but never as I do or have done. Please. for. the. love. of. God."

Some things are easier to explain than others, but when I throw my own experiences into these lessons in morality... I fail.

Miserably.

Such was the case last night when it was brought up that I had once been to the principal's office (My high school friends of mine reading this need to shut their mouths, I was an angel, got that?). I have Thomas (Deciphering Dad, not the engine, just as annoying) to thank for this mess. I don't even remember how it came up...

"Mommy's been to the principal's office, right Mommy?" Thomas said, shooting me a smirk.

"You went to the principal's office, Mom?" Bay asked. He looked shocked. Obviously, he hasn't been taught our my colorful personal and family history yet.

"Well, yeah. And it was for something really bad. I made fun of a girl who was my friend. I called her a name. It was really bad," I said this all smugly, thinking I could teach my sons something. It hadn't really dawned on me yet that I was going to explain clique behavior with prepubescent females.

"What did you call her?"
"Why would you be mean to your friend?"
"You've always said to never do that!"
"THAT'S RUDE!"

The questions they peppered me with came quickly, faster than I could answer. But I wanted to tell the truthish (it's a word), and for them to understand that what I had done was wrong. I wanted to teach them right from wrong.

Oh God, I'm pretty sure I messed this up.

"Well, I called her a nasty word that sort of sounded like horse, but it's not horse and I misspelled it. In a note. The teacher caught it."

"What was the word? Is it one you still say?"

"Um, no! Never." This was a lie. I call Roxy, our dog, a word that sort of sounds like horse regularly when she craps on the pavement, gets onto the couch, or pees on the floor. I just try not to say it in front of the boys. "I also called her a troll, like those weird troll dolls we found at Babe's?"

The boys looked horrified that I could be so mean to a girl. Thomas started laughing. I wanted to kick him.

"Why would you make fun of your friend? And call her a troll? Those things are ugly!" Bay looked horrified.

"Well, um... I dunno. She wasn't that pretty and Mommy had a much larger vocabulary than other fourth graders and liked to say things that other people wouldn't understand. See, I came from a broken home..." That last part might have been in my head.

"Mommy," Bay said, his brother nodding knowingly while they both judged my former nine year old self, "all girls are pretty! You should know better."  Bay and Morgan were incited to take up the cause for women everywhere, whatever that means.

Hell. The kid was totally right. He was parroting back the past almost decade of my feminist, "every woman is gorgeous in her own way," stuff I've crammed down their throats and fully believe in. We don't do ugly shaming in this house, fat shaming, etc. When I say "we," I mean that I forbid it in front of the kids and am guilty of being catty as hell (I try to stick to laughing at what people wear) and also make negative comments about myself in the mirror.

However, since they, you know, listen to me with ears and all, I really try to fight the urge to poke fun at people in any place but my head. My brain is a seriously sick, twisted, and dark place, people.

"Yes, boys, it was really mean of me, wasn't it?" I was seriously thinking I could turn  this around still. "And Mommy got into trouble for it. It's not nice to call people names."

Morgan's anti bullying video script kicked into the "on" position right about then, "You don't say, 'Ya fatty!' 'Ya stupid moron!' You don't ever call people mean names like 'troll' or that word that kind of sounds like 'horse,' Mommy. Be everyone's friend. Be good. Don't be that bully kid."

I tried to explain to them why a girl would say a horrible thing to another girl. There really was no decent explanation except that I'd been very mean. So, I tried that approach. They still didn't get why I would just do that. I finally broke down.

"I did it because I was with a group of catty and bitchy little girls and they hated her, so I had to hate her, too. It's like code of the female. Don't worry, guys really don't pull this crap."  Yup, I ruined that whole deal.

The kids looked at me in horror. Thomas hid back in the kitchen, laughing silently. Because. The dog wouldn't look at me.

Moral of this story: 

I really suck at teaching some kinds of morals. 

And maybe telling stories about them. 

Please don't send me extra kids, okay? 

*Also, if you're that girl who I called the word that I spelled incorrectly and said sounded like "horse," I'm incredibly sorry. You were obviously not that word (Bay also thought I should write an apology letter to you and your mom). You did not look like a troll. I was just better at making up insults than the other girls due to my extensive vocabulary.... and broken home.

Jello Tastes Like Broken Dreams

So, if you've been keeping up with my medical bullshit, you know that I'm fasting right now for two tests that I was moronic enough to schedule back to back. Today, a cat scan with contrast dye (nothing in my stomach  past midnight the night before except water to take my medications) and then a <gulp> colonoscopy tomorrow.

Yeah, I love starting blog posts this way. It just really brings a certain something to them, doesn't it?

So anyways, I'm really freakin' hungry. I couldn't have anything with nuts, seeds, or beans all weekend. There goes any snack foods I love and I've been subsisting solely off of snacks for the past two weeks. Oh God, hummus, we will meet again. Soon. 

Basically, the only things I can eat today after the scan are Jello (see the post title in reference to how I feel about that crap) and something called beef consomme. Which is what I use to make beef stew. I make a killer beef stew. Sometimes I do a red wine reduction. Mmmmm.

I love food. I used to seriously hate it because food, it turns out, can make you fat when you don't exercise and guess what I hate to do? Yep.

Since moving to Louisiana, I've gained 40lbs. Forty freakin' pounds. Most of that has been this year alone. I have no shame.

I live outside of New Orleans, FFS! We are good food, people.

There is crawfish, shrimp (and, if you've ever watched the cinematic masterpiece, Forrest Gump, you know that there are hundreds of ways to cook them and most of them aren't that healthy- all are tasty), oysters with sauces... Oh God, the sauces. I make a mean gravy, I rock the hell out of sauce. Also, bread pudding. And screw you, Jim Walter! Bread pudding is why God created bread and white chocolate bourbon sauce!

Every two weeks, I grocery shop. That means I meal plan, usually very carefully.  As in, a whole chicken is carefully basted and roasted in the oven, then the leftovers are turned into Caribbean chicken. Or chicken and dumplins'. <that wasn't a typo, I'm Southern>

I like cooking, for the most part because I love eating. I'm a HELL of a cook, too.


But this morning, I'm writing a seriously stupid post because I can only eat the stuff that tastes like broken dreams and something that is stock for gravy. I want bread pudding. From Copeland's. Which is a block from my apartment. It'd still be hot by the time it gets here.

Oh God... I'm going to end up eating my hair.

*Editor's note: I fully intend on eating ALL THE DAMNED THINGS after Tuesday. We're talking binge eating like a mofo. And then, because I've been vomiting like crazy, I'll probably spew like a sorostitute during Rush Week. 

Ways I've Traumatized Children (Mostly Mine)

Here lately, I've been losing what little filter I have going on that whole brain to mouth thing. Granted, it wasn't a foolproof deal to begin with, but y'all, it's getting bad. We're talking bad. However, I thought I would put it into perspective for you. Also, I swear I'm not this mean to kids all the time. Swear. 

Also, I'm not a bad person... I think.

When Morgan was in the first grade, I once lost my ever lovin' crap and told him and his brother that, when they pitch fits (not meltdowns, fits), they make Jesus cry. Oh, and Santa and the angels weep. That was a fun letter home from the teacher. The phone call was even better. 

I accidentally (seriously, it just flew out) told Morgan, as a toddler, "Honey, don't eat out of the trashcan. Vagrants do that." I was on the phone with my cousin at the time. She won't let me live it down.

One year, Bay kept misbehaving- a lot- around Christmas. I mean, nonstop. So... Santa made a little midnight visit to his room... He trashed it with toilet paper, wrapping paper, and left a note, along with Santa's watchman (our version of Elf on the Shelf, much creepier), and a lump of real coal. 

I told Bay that if he doesn't stop the nose picking and eating, his teeth will turn green like the Grinch's. Not so bad, right? Well, then I had my friend, Sherie, who works in the dental field, back me up by going into full detail what dentists do to grinchy teeth. She pretty much rocks in my book. This really didn't stop Morgan, however, from doing the same. 

I've bacon shamed my child. He's never done it again and I put it on Facebook. 

He wasn't that sad, promise. I told him to look sadder. 

I publicly shame my children for the weird and bad crap they do on Facebook, especially when it's funny. Not so much anymore because now I can just snap my fingers and say, "I think this deserves a Facebook status." Then, I'll hear cries of "Nooooo! Please don't put this on Facebook!" See, they want y'all to think they're little angels and not hellions. They actually fall somewhere in between. 

I told Morgan once that there were no more Handy Manny shows in existence ever. That was around the same time that I had him go to the window to watch for Dora so I could pee alone or just with one child watching. I didn't know he was autistic then, okay? 

When my kids asked me where babies came from, I showed them a (cleanish) YouTube video of a woman giving birth. That might not have been well thought out. Morgan ran around yelling, "Turn that OFF! OFF! NOW! NOW! NOW!" Bay sat there, very quietly... then he asked, "But I thought I didn't come out of your vagina. Is there a video for that?" So I showed him a cesarean. That, apparently, is worse. He actually turned green when he figured out that he could have peed inside of my uterus. Whoops.

I once told someone's kid (who is a complete hell spawn) that the presents under the tree are probably from his parents pretending to be Santa, not the big guy himself because he's so damned nasty. This was after the kid had hit my kids over the head with God knows what, broken my stuff, and his mom did nothing. I can't imagine why that friendship didn't last. 

This is how I make Bay have a public timeout, complete with me setting my timer to go off the the nuclear holocaust alarm when the time runs out: 

Yes, I used sanitizer after this. Because, eww. 

Last year, we had a bitch of a neighbor in one of the buildings in our complex. So, when trick-or-treating rolled around, I told my kids (jokingly) that there was an evil witch in that apartment building. Morgan, being Morgan, has never forgotten that. And he wound up being really curious as to which of our neighbors was the evil witch. “Is that the evil witch, Mommy?” he’d ask, despite me telling him that I’d lied.

At one point, we were entering our apartment and another neighbor was coming up the stairs… Morgan blurted out to her, “I don’t care what Mommy says, I don’t think you’re an evil witch at all! I think you’re nice, you’re sweet, and you’re kind.” Well, hell. That’s another neighbor who wouldn’t talk to me after that.

Also, last night (I can blame the pain killers my doc has me on for this), I told a kid who was climbing on the outside of a stair well, second story, "You shouldn't do that. If you fall, you'll crack open your head. You'll probably die. And your mom is sitting right there, not watching you, so I'm not dialing 9-1-1."

Yep, filter is gone. It's a good thing I don't get out much.