In the Middle

The day after Christmas, I took the teenagers on a short road trip to visit the Grandma and Grandpa of No, otherwise known as my mom and dad.  I had warned my father in advance that he should stock up on cheese (you can never have too much cheese) and chocolate milk, to be prepared for the usual adolescent sass that comes with having two teenagers around, and that at least one of them sleeps until noon. Seeing the teenagers and my parents in the same place reminds me (not that I really need it) that I am in the middle years of my own life- and boy, sometimes it is hard.

My father and the teenager have exactly the same personality, which makes for some interesting interactions considering that one is young, idealistic, and has it all figured out- and the other is old, cynical, and has it all figured out.  Conversations can get volatile, and sometimes end like this:

Grandpa: Well, you don't understand what you're talking about.
Teenager: Well, neither do you!
Grandpa: You don't listen.  Stop getting all excited and listen.
Teenager: Well, you don't listen either! Just because I'm only a teenager doesn't mean I don't know anything!
Grandpa (to me)- Well, you sure have your hands full.

My mother has Alzheimer's disease.  When my son was diagnosed with autism, I thought then that was the worst thing that could happen to me, and that having a child with autism would be the hardest thing I'd ever have to deal with.  I was wrong.  The hardest thing, right now, is seeing how my mom deteriorates every time I see her.  Autism is no easy walk in the woods, but my son is ever moving forward even though progress is sometimes slow.  With Alzheimer's, every step is backwards.  Conversations go like this:

Mom: Who are you again?
Me: I'm your daughter.
Mom: Oh, that's right. (sounding confused) And who are these other people?
Me: My kids.
Mom: Oh, I didn't know you had kids.

Middle age has its milestones, but they're not always fun ones like getting married, buying your first house, or having your first baby.   Seeing your kids become adults is fun but it's also nerve-wracking (and expensive).  Retirement is on the not-so-distant horizon, but you may or may not have enough money to retire when you want to.  Every time you go to the doctor, they want you to have some not-fun medical procedure like a mammogram or a colonoscopy. Almost everywhere you go, you are reminded that you just aren't that young anymore.  I still think of myself as a young whippersnapper most of the time, but seeing my mother's decline reminds me that I'm in the middle, and that the challenges yet to come will be hard ones.

Drama

Twice a year, I say to myself that it is time to change my ways and become a better person.  One of those times is every August, when preparing for school to start again (yes, I will go through my son's backpack every day!) and the other time is, of course,  New Year's Eve.

Every year I've made promises to myself that I will improve myself in some way. I will floss every night.  I will work out every day and lose 25 pounds.  I will get organized and stay that way. I will relentlessly declutter. I will cook healthy, balanced meals every night. I will do something kind for another person every day. I will no longer procrastinate on tasks I don't like, like going to the dentist or getting the oil changed in my car. I will quit cussing when I'm driving and people cut me off in traffic, or when I step on a stray LEGO.  I will quit forgetting to put books I've read into my Goodreads account. I will stop turning in books late to the library.  I will repaint the kids' rooms. I'm going to clean all the grout around my bathroom tiles using homemade cleaning products I found online.  I will not start a recipe and then find out that I'm out of eggs, or vanilla, or that the batter needs to sit for 24 hours.  I will finish the cross-stitch project I started in 2005 and then abandoned. I will be a better, healther, more organized person.

I don't actually keep many of these promises or meet many of these goals- I did have some success with the flossing resolution, but as for the rest of it, I must confess that I'm not as slim as I was in high school, and my house is still not as organized as I would like it to  be.  I still cuss while driving, and my library late fees alone would make a nice contribution towards a new building.  I'm not always as nice as I should be, and the cross-stitch project remains, sadly, incomplete.

This year, I'm making a new resolution for 2016. I am going to stay away from drama.  Not theater drama, but the drama that occurs on social media, or in real life.   I'm especially resolving to stay away from online drama.  Since 2016 is a big election year, I'm sure that there will be plenty of drama to go around, but I'm going to just scroll on by. I spend way too much time on the computer anyway.  Most of the people whose drama I find myself drawn into aren't even my own Facebook friends, but other people I've never even met.  All that drama is an energy sucker and I don't need it.  As a middle-aged mother of teenagers, I barely have enough energy to get through the day anyway.

2016 is going to be a busy year for the Mom of No; I have a teenager who will be learning how to drive (pray for us- I've seen her drive go-karts).  I'm going to start some home improvement projects.  I plan to spend a lot of time hiking and trying to get more bad iPhone nature shots.  My band mom duties continue, and of course I have this blog.  So no drama for me. Not getting sucked into it.  I'm going to put down the phone or log off the computer and walk away. 

Let's see how long I can last.  Hopefully longer than the resolution to work out every day (that one lasted about 2 weeks), or the resolution to finish incomplete projects (that one never got started).

Merry Christmas, and if I don't post again before January 1, Happy New Year.  May your holidays be full of joy and happiness and great food, and may those of us who are parents to LEGO fanatics get through these two weeks  while the little darlings are on vacation without stepping on any of those little plastic bricks. 

Christmas

The Mom of No has a long commute to and from work, and usually I listen to audio books, but sometimes the book ends and then I start getting myself into trouble by mulling over controversial topics of societal interest and what I think about them.  Mostly my thoughts go no further than the confines of my automobile, and that's probably for the best.

This past week I've been thinking about the "War on Christmas", and I have come to the conclusion that there is a war on Christmas- but it isn't the one that people think it is.  Don't roll your eyes at me yet and get all huffy; I'm going to try to explain my thinking.

In many movie and stage versions of Dickens' Christmas Carol,  The Ghost of Christmas Present is portrayed as a large man with a booming voice, dressed lavishly in flowing velvet robes, and surrounded by a cornucopia of good things.  Under his robes, hidden away, are want and ignorance- but you don't know that until later in the story, when the ghost shows the ragged pair to a shocked Scrooge.   The Ghost of Christmas Present is the epitome of the Christmas season- a time of lavish generosity and abundance.  Look around in December- everything is abundant and generosity is overflowing, from people willingly sacrificing low utility bills to light the exterior of their houses in brilliant displays to successful toy and food drives.  The music at concerts is joyous and full of flourishes. Christmas cookies and fudge abound (the Mom of No likes maple, just sayin').

I suppose that is why I don't get the complaints about a "war on Christmas"- Christmas is everywhere! How could you miss it?  If aliens landed in the United States anytime after Thanksgiving (OK, anytime after Halloween, especially if you are in Hobby Lobby) it would probably take them about 2.5 seconds to start wondering what the decorated trees were all about.  On my way to work, there is a car dealership with a huge Santa Claus in front of it. Every church in town has a manger scene set out.  At my dentist's office, they were playing Christmas carols on the music system.  I got a filling done while listening to "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" when the dentist wasn't drilling or making ominous comments to his assistant, like "oh, that decay is deeper than I thought".  God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay..something about a root canal...Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day...we're going to put some medicine down on that root and see what happens, keep your mouth open wide, please... yes, Christmas is everywhere.

Yet, despite the lavish abundance and goodwill of the season, we still have bitterness and anger  (don't believe me? Spend ten minutes on Facebook) , and the twin specters of ignorance and want hiding amongst the Christmas decor.  Somewhere, probably lots of somewheres, in this country, a child will go to sleep hungry on Christmas Eve and wake up shivering cold on Christmas morning to find that Santa has passed him or her by- and this will not come as a surprise to that child although it will still be a disappointment.  Bitterness, anger, ignorance and want. If you are looking for a war on Christmas that is where it is. It is not the quality or quantity of decoration in public places, or the greetings people choose. 

One final note: before you send me hate mail accusing me of all sorts of dastardly qualities, I am a Christian and a churchgoer. The strength of my faith does not rely on public displays of the season, but I have no problem with people wishing me a "Merry Christmas"- I'll happily say it right back to you and mean it, but I'm also fine with "happy holidays" or "have a nice day".  I love the Christmas classics, especially that masterpiece of holiday entertainment, "Christmas Vacation". Also, I'm still experiencing some post-dental work angst and pain.  Be nice.  And have a Merry Christmas.

Progress

Last night was the teenager's Christmas/Winter/Holiday band concert.  She wasn't going to be performing because she is recovering from pneumonia and she's not yet cleared for clarinet, but she wanted to go see her band BFFs perform.  At the last minute her brother decided he wanted to come, too. I was surprised because he usually just wants to hang out at home and play with his Legos.

When my son was younger, I was used to fleeing public events.  It's an autism parenting tradition. You compare notes with other parents- We had to leave a movie halfway through! We left the baseball game in the first inning! We got told to leave church!  Now, many "autism friendly" events exist, but when my son was a young child they weren't as common.  When I did take him somewhere, and the odd behaviors manifested themselves, I could feel the glares on my neck like a heat lamp. I'd feel the need to apologize profusely, and then run for the hills- although once, at a hockey game, I explained the situation and the fans behind us said hey, we just thought he was really into the hockey fights! (the Mom of No does appreciate a good hockey fight- as do her offspring).

After awhile, I just got tired of explaining and apologizing. As he got older, I learned how to help him adjust to different situations. I had read a book about Anne Boleyn, whose motto for a time was "let them grumble; that's how it's going to be" (this was way before she got her head cut off).  That became my parenting philosophy.  So you think my kid acts a little weird? Oh well, stare all you want. He's taller than me and he walks around with Lego toys and when he's ready to go, talking is closed, and that is who he is.

So last night we went to the band concert, my son with his favorite Lego "fidget" toy, and I went through the whole routine of reminders- you need to sit, be quiet, don't drop the Legos on the floor, there are thirteen songs, we'll leave when it's done.  The first band came out, played their first song, and when it was over, he clapped enthusiastically.

The teenager looked over at him cynically.  She's familiar with his method of operation.

Teenager: Do you really like this music? (sounding doubtful)
Son: Yes! It's awesome!
Teenager: Which band did you like the best?
Son: I like the second band!
Teenager: You're just trying to butter up Mom because it's almost Christmas.
Son: Yes! I'm doing that too!

If I had seen this scene in a crystal ball when he was 5, I would not have believed it. But here he was, sitting quietly (except to ask how many songs were left), enjoying the music, and applauding at the appropriate times for the  performers.  Even though he did ask about twelve times where the concession stand was (no concessions), it was a little Christmas miracle.  I was so proud.

Onion Dip

It's not Pinterest-worthy staging, but it sure tastes great!

The Mom of No is not exactly known for her domestic talents (although my son says I bake great banana bread-but he's always trying to butter me up for toys) but I can at least do this one thing well: onion dip.

Several years ago, I acquired this recipe for "Onion Souffle".  The name of the individual who gave me this recipe is lost in the mists of time, but it's become my go-to whenever I'm invited somewhere and asked to bring a dish.  Usually it disappears within minutes.  I suspect that sometimes it isn't my presence that is desired; it is the onion dip.

It's really simple; it has only four ingredients: onions, mayo, cream cheese and shredded parmesan cheese blended together and then baked. Somehow, magic occurs while baking which turns these four ingredients into a 8X8 pan of spectacular creamy cheesy savory goodness.

If you look up onion dip or onion souffle online, many different versions exist.  This is the one I use:

One large sweet onion, chopped
1 cup mayonnaise (Once I used the reduced fat by mistake and it worked out fine, just FYI)
1 box (8 oz) cream cheese
1 cup shredded Parmesan cheese (under the premise that you can never have too much cheese, I just throw the entire 2 cup package of shredded cheese in- but the original recipe said one cup).

Mix it all together with a mixer. Spread it out in a 8 X 8 baking dish and bake it for 30 minutes at 350 degrees, or until golden brown on top.  Serve it with Fritos.

It's seriously delicious. 

Stress

You know that song, "It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year"?  I sometimes think of it as "It's the Most Stressful Time of The Year". Mothers seem to be the most prone to this.  The kids aren't stressed- Santa is coming and they have no school.  Men don't seem to be stressed about it either.

Two posts from friends this week- one on breastfeeding expectations for new mothers and one on holiday perfection- got my mind churning.  At some point, being a mother stopped being a relationship and started being a job.  Once a year, at my work, we have performance evaluations in which your performance is ranked on a sliding scale starting with  "you totally suck at everything" and ending with "you are the best employee ever", with most people (including the Mom of No) somewhere in between. 

For moms, there is no scale- there is either utter failure or blissful perfection.  You tried breastfeeding but it wasn't working so you ended up using formula? Utter failure. No points for the fact that the baby is still fed and happy.  Your dining room looks like a set for a famous kitchenwares company?  Blissful perfection.  Extra points if you have kids and they don't break any of the dishes or spill cranberry sauce on the heirloom lace tablecloth.  No wonder there are so many memes about mothers needing lots of wine on Facebook. 

As I learned to adapt to my son's autism, my standards started changing as well.  What I considered a success was not necessarily what other people considered a success.  I got a phone call once from his school because he'd been running down the hall with a gen ed student.  My reaction was hey, he made a friend! Success! The school was actually calling me because running was against the rules.  So he was breaking the rules, but he was doing it with someone else! Still a success!  I was able to nurse my daughter (disclosure: I did it because I'm frugal and formula is expensive whereas breast milk is free; pumping while working full time is a complete pain in the butt) but my son needed to supplement.  He still thrived (he grew like a weed).  About the only thing I wish I'd done differently when my kids were little was to pay much less attention to what other people thought I should be doing.

I was once discussing with another friend about how at some point, you're just making work for yourself with no significant return.  If you enjoy making individually spun sugar snowflakes to put on 200 cookies, then you should do it.  But if you don't enjoy it, or you'd really rather be doing something else, your kids or co-workers will probably still eat the cookies even without the snowflakes.  In fact, both my kids and my co-workers will joyfully eat anything that has chocolate on it even if it's a boxed cake mix.  Joyful eating is always a success, whether it's store-bought cupcakes or hand-crafted homemade Pinterest-worthy creations.

I'll tell you a secret.  The Family of No has been beset this December by various illnesses, and nary a cookie has been baked in our house.  The tree is up and decorated, and the presents are wrapped but only because I had to take a day off work to go to the dentist so I had some extra time. I probably won't break out the good china on Christmas (we might have pizza for dinner), and I don't even have a dining room so no worries there.  Not an utter failure, but not blissful perfection either.  So if you're worried about perfection, worry no more.  At least one other mother (me) is right there with you. 

Mom Advice

Now that my kids are both teenagers and the childhood years are behind us, and since I've become aware that a few of my acquaintances (who are much younger than me) are expecting, I feel compelled to offer advice about the whole Mom thing.  I'm not saying it's good advice, and you definitely shouldn't take it if you're not feeling the love, but it's now out there if you want it. 

When my kids were much younger, I got caught up in that whole working vs stay home mother argument, which really needs to just go away.  The Dad of No stayed home while I worked and people thought that was an unusual arrangement but that is how it was and both the kids survived and they actually show signs that they might grow up and become productive citizens.  So my advice is just ignore that whole topic, whether you stay home or go to work.  I honestly wish I'd spent less time debating it with strangers on discussion boards and more time hiking in the woods.

You should always carry a sanitary napkin in your purse.  When the Son of Never Stops Eating was a toddler, he got bitten by a squirrel at the city zoo.  When they found out it was just a local squirrel and not an actual zoo animal, the zoo personnel handed me a first aid kit with six little bandages and some gauze (you'd think a zoo would have a better first aid kit, but I guess that was considered a non-essential item on the annual budget). Since his hand was gushing blood, the bandaids weren't going to cut it.  I wrapped that sanitary napkin on his hand with some gauze, and the blood was absorbed until we got to the ER.  The ER doctor was really impressed with my resourcefulness.

Do not have high standards for car cleanliness.  When your baby is a cute newborn, you'll make a promise to yourself that you will never let your kids eat or drink in your car, and then one day your 7 year old will start complaining that she's thirsty, you'll stop and get her chocolate milk, and since you're in a hurry you let her drink it in the car and she spills it.  Three years later, people will be getting in your car and they'll wrinkle their nose and say, hey, did you spill some milk in here?

If you set a consequence for an action, make sure you're prepared to follow through.  It sucks to tell your kids, hey, if you don't pick up your toys we're not going to the park to meet your friends- and then have them not pick up the toys, because then guess who isn't going to the park?  Pick a consequence that hurts them but not you. 

Don't buy any 0-3 month baby clothes.  People will give you a bunch, and the baby outgrows them three days after birth.

The great wheel of karma frowns on people who do not RSVP for birthday parties.

Buy a house across the street from the elementary school.  Car pickup lines are vicious. 

When they're new and tiny and wrinkly, it seems like you have forever- and then one day, which comes faster than you'd think, you realize that they're taller than you, they are champion eye rollers with sass and attitude, your auto insurance is about to triple, and that you haven't changed a diaper in years.  On the night of my son's 13th birthday, we took him out to eat.  At the table next to us was a family with a 6 week old baby girl.  My son kept looking at her, and finally he asked, was I ever that little?  And I thought,  yeah, you were- and it seems like just two weeks ago, not 13 years ago.

Always have a plan B (and C).  Always carry toilet paper in the car (don't ask). Don't worry about other people staring at you when the kid has a meltdown over M&M's at Target even though you explained to her seven times before getting out of the car that there were going to be no M&M's.  Go to the park a lot. Don't freak out when your toddler eats dog food (both kids lived).  When people ask you what your kid wants for Christmas, tell them, "books". If you don't flip out, they won't flip out. A lot of parenting is just trial and error.  Go forth and have fun.

Turkey Tail Fungus

Turkey tail (Trametes versicolor)

I found this fungus while I was out hiking in the woods with the Son of Never Stops Eating last weekend. It was his birthday, and what he wanted to do on his birthday was take a hike with his mom- what a great kid! The trail was a little wet, so our boots and shoes got a little damp, but it was worth it.

I spent some time yesterday working on an ID, and I finally concluded that this is a "Turkey Tail fungus", Trametes versicolor.  I didn't get a picture of the pore side, because the pores were so tiny I could barely see them even with my reading glasses. The cap side had a velvety texture. It was located on the side of a decaying log.

I think it's a gorgeous fungus especially with the varying autumn colors.

We also found this fascinating fungus, but I can't get a good ID on it yet other than knowing it's a polypore (order polyporales).  I may never get any closer than that, but it's still an interesting fungus- and I got a great white spore print from it, too.

Socks and Underwear

These days, it's common to give names to parenting styles- there's helicopter parenting, free range parenting, something called "dolphin parenting", you get the idea.  My particular parenting style doesn't really have a name, but it can be summed up this way: I live to mess with my kids' minds.

Once, when I thought the teenager  had been in the shower just a little too long, and I was envisioning the next water bill being in the triple digits, I stuck my head inside the bathroom and yelled, "Hey! The lake called! It's running out of water!" The first time, she actually believed me. My father actually gets credit for that one; he had low tolerance for long showers.

For years now, our family has had a running joke with the Son of Never Stops Eating; we tell him that he is going to get socks and underwear and ONLY socks and underwear for Christmas.  If he starts acting up, or giving me attitude, I'll just respond, "Well, nothing for you but socks and underwear under the tree!"  If we walk by a display of socks or undewear at Target, I'll point them out and say "look, there's your Christmas present!".  Conversations often go like this:

Me: You better shape up and clean that room, or it's going to be socks and underwear for you!
Son: No! I don't want socks and underwear! That's boring!
Me: Hmmm, not looking so good for you. Now you're giving me sass.
Son: Tell Santa I want toys, not stupid socks!
Me: Well, you better go do your chores!

Before I get e-mails about being a mean parent, just know that Santa is bringing him a real present, not socks and underwear, although the teenager has told me that I should wrap some up and tell him to open that present first.  Siblings always seem keen on playing jokes on each other; I can always count on each of them to be my willing accomplice when I want to play a joke on the other one.

I've also told my kids that we're going to dinner at the Tofu Palace.  That isn't actually a real restaurant; I made it up.  I like tofu, but my kids don't.  If we are going out to eat and they don't like my choice, I tell them, OK then! We're going to go to the Tofu Palace! Yum! Delicious! It took them a few times to realize that I wasn't referring to a place that actually existed (at least not where we live).

Our local school district likes to notify parents of activities by callouts, and those were a gift from above.  My daughter actually didn't fall for it (cynical teenager) but when I'd get one from my son's school, I'd tell him, hey, I got a phone call from your principal today! I know about what you did! He would spend several minutes trying to convince me that he hadn't done anything. I would just respond by telling him that wasn't what the principal said.  Then I'd start laughing and he'd realize I was playing a joke on him.

However, I've come to the realization that I need to up my game now that they are getting older and less gullible.   My son turned 13 recently, but he's still very attached to his Legos and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys.  A few nights before his birthday, as he was going to bed, this conversation took place:

Me: Enjoy all those toys while you still can.
Son: Why?
Me: Because when you become a teenager, you can't have toys anymore. It's a rule.
Son: NO! I like my toys- hey, wait a minute, are you messing with me?

Busted.  So busted.

Littering

The Family of No has an "Adopt a Spot" near our house. If you're not familiar with the program, you "adopt" a roadside median or other small area, and agree to pick up trash from time to time. The spot originally belonged to my daughter's Girl Scout troop, but after the troop went defunct we decided to keep it as a family project because my son loves the Lorax, it's not a huge time commitment, and I think it's important to be good citizens and to contribute to society.  The fact that the spot is very near a donut shop may or may not have had something to do with my offspring being enthusiastic about picking up trash.

When we go out to our Adopt a Spot, my son usually engages in a running commentary about the trash that people leave there- mostly cigarette butts thrown from car windows and water/soft drink bottles. Once we found some cabbages and another time, some underwear. That find was the cause of much mirth; apparently 12 year old boys find the thought of someone tossing underwear out of a car to be hilarious.  For about 15 minutes he was gasping with laughter about someone driving down the road with no underwear on. The teenager just rolled her eyes.

My son, who can be very rule-oriented, (if my head even turns toward my cell phone while in the car, I get a lecture about texting while driving) has particular disdain for cigarette butts- he'll stand near the offending butts, hands on his hips, and proclaim, "Smoking is bad! People should not smoke! And they should NOT put their butts on the ground!" but he isn't a fan of plastic water bottles either.  Beer bottles infuriate him (people should NOT be drinking beer in their cars!) although from a picking up trash point of view, glass bottles weigh the bag down and make it easier to put trash in.  Heavier trash bags also makes it easier for the Mom of No to justify the trash cleanup as her workout for the day.

Invariably, the conversation comes around to this question: Mom, why do people litter? Don't they know this hurts the Earth?  I think that is a good question.  Why do people litter? We live in a place where trash cans are not hard to find.  I don't understand why people feel the need to toss their beer bottles/water bottles/soft drink cups/cabbages/underwear out of their car windows or on the ground.  Why can't you wait until you get to wherever you are going and then throw your trash away?

The Mom of No is admittedly a bit of a treehugger, so from my point of view trash is bad for the environment. It ends up in the lakes and rivers, and it can hurt wildlife.  Even if you don't care about the Earth, though, I can't think of any good reasons to litter.  Often, when I'm out hiking on the trails near my house, I see water or sports drink bottles tossed down on the ground.  I don't get that- if you brought it in, how hard can it be to carry it out?  It even weighs less because now it's empty!

As long as people litter, there will probably be people like me picking it up.  Just be aware that if you're the one tossing underwear out of your car (and I don't want to know who you are, or why your underwear ended up on the ground), you are possibly providing much amusement to certain Adopt-a-Spot volunteers.

Suffering

Oh, the suffering! Oh, the tragedy! Oh, the angst!

The Son of Never Stops Eating was moping around the house last night, complaining about having to go back to school after his week-long Thanksgiving break.  Even though I reminded him that he would get two weeks off soon, for Christmas, and that every summer he gets three months of vacation, he didn't want to hear those words of comfort. 

Son: I don't want to go to school.
Me: Really? Would you rather go work in the salt mines?
Son: Yes! Because it's not school!
Me: Lots of kids around the world would love to go to school but they have to work instead.
Son: (rolls eyes) I know that! You always say that!

The Teenager was laying on the sofa, watching "Mockingjay, Part I" and taking her temperature.  On Friday she'd come down with a virus and was running a fever, so no school for her.  She was actually mad about not being able to go to school; she was moaning about makeup work and missing band practice.  Her brother went over to her and gave her a kiss.

Teenager: What are you doing? Eww, get away from me!
Brother: I want to get sick like you.  Breathe on me.
Teenager: No, you don't want to get sick! Being sick is awful!
Brother: But you don't have to go to school.
Teenager:  MOM! MOOOMMMMMM!!!!! Tell him to leave me ALONE!

I kept reminding him that school isn't all bad.  He likes a lot of things about school- his robotics class, his robotics class teacher, his regular teacher, seeing his friends, and walking to school.  It's really one or two things about school that he doesn't like, and everything else is fine.  However, he hyper-focuses on those few things, and not all the other things that he enjoys about going to school.

Me: What would you do if you didn't  have school?
Son: I would build Legos and watch Making Fiends and be with my friends!
Me: But all your friends would be at school.
Son: I would go help them escape! And we would go have fun!

Yes, he has quite the imagination, the little darling.  I suppose that I have to admit that quite a few of us- even us grownups- feel that way at least a little about going to school or work after a few days off.  I like to sleep in, hang out around the house, and do what I want (although since I'm a grownup, "do what I want" really means "get caught up on the to-do list of boring chores").   Alas, duty calls for us all.  Even reluctant middle-school students.

Thanksgiving 2015

This morning, the teenager and I woke up early to cut pie.  It's been a Thanksgiving tradition for the two of us, for the last four years, to volunteer at our church the day before Thanksgiving as pie cutters and platers.  Every year, our church opens its doors on Thanksgiving Day to offer a free Thanksgiving dinner; the only qualification someone needs to walk in the door is that they want to eat a delicious turkey dinner with all the sides and a piece of pie.  People volunteer to serve dinner, cook turkeys, bake pies, set up the day before, and clean up afterwards.  Jesus is surely looking down on the entire effort and saying, "See, people, that is exactly what I had in mind!".  I have been thinking for the rest of the day how this experience compares with one I had last weekend.

Last Saturday, I logged onto Facebook while drinking my coffee and saw a meme that someone had posted (not a friend of mine) that compared the Syrian refugees to rats.  The words read "during the Black Plague, no one said only a few of the rats have the fleas let's let the rest come in".  The day before I had seen one comparing the refugees to rattlesnakes. People were liking these memes and possibly even reposting them as well. 

Several years ago, I took the teenager (who was then in 5th grade) to the Holocaust Museum downtown.   She looked at all the exhibits, including one that explained that the Nazi regime killed individuals who were disabled, and asked if that would have included her brother.  I said that it likely would have.  She nodded, looking troubled, and went on to the next exhibit.  Finally she asked me if I though that this could happen here and I said no, I didn't think so.  I didn't put a lot of thought into that answer.  United States, 21st century- completely different place than Germany, 1930s-1940s.  Right?  But here we are, seeing people compared to rats.

Compared to most people in most places at most times (disclaimer: the Mom of No is not a history expert, but I did pay attention in class) those of us who live in the United States have an astounding amout of freedom, despite what you read about on the internet.  I know that I have much to  be thankful for, and if you are reading this you probably do too (You can read,  you have access to a computer, you have electricity and no dictator is censoring what you are reading online).

I have friends who have concerns about the refugees coming over.  It's okay to have questions, or to wonder how the process works.  I had no idea how thoroughly refugees are vetted until last week (it's intense).  What is unacceptable is dehumanizing an entire group of people by comparing them to rats, or rattlesnakes, or proposing that they be forced to wear badges. 

I still have hope that what I told the teenager that day in the museum was right.  The rat meme got likes, but the vast majority of the comments below it were essentially "you have gone too far".  I hope that we have learned that making people wear badges or proposing putting them in camps is wrong.  I have hope that in this place, at this time of year, when so many of us have so much to be thankful for even though it may not always seem like it, that we can refuse to engage in the hate.  After all, this is the season of gratitude, generosity towards our fellow human beings, and celebration of the hope that one day, we will have peace on Earth and goodwill towards all.

Chores

You know how sometimes people "humblebrag" about their kids, as in "Oh, such a hard day! I had to take little Susie to her Olympic equestrian tryouts, followed by her advanced Chinese lessons, and then we had to dash down to her cello audition because she might be the youngest member ever of the big city orchestra- sometimes I wish we were just a normal family and I wasn't in the car so much! Sigh!" What I am about to say is the exact opposite of humblebragging.  It is a honest admission of maternal inadequacy.

My kids are woefully unprepared to go off on their own.  I say this because I have been remiss in teaching them the basics.  I'm talking about functional life skills here.  Skills like cleaning, doing laundry, taking care of your stuff.  Shopping- not the fun kind, like for a kayak or for books, but for clothes, or groceries, or appliances. Honestly, I'm kind of a type-A perfectionist and I like things done a specific way, and often it's just easier to do it myself.  Also, whenever there's a mess and I ask the kids about it, they blame each other, or start trying to one-up each other on who has more chores.

Me: Who left toothpaste all over the counter in the bathroom?
Kids: He/She did it! (pointing at each other)
Me: Well, someone needs to go clean it up.
Son: Well, I have to feed the dog.
Daughter: Well, I have to unload the dishwasher! And do clarinet practice!

Recently our dishwasher broke, so right now dishes in our household are being washed the old fashioned way, by hand.  At first it was like camping! It was fun! Family bonding time happened! But as the days wore on, I noticed that more and more, the dishes were getting left by the sink.  One morning, I asked my son about it.

Me: Why are these dirty dishes still on the counter?
Son:  I dunno.
Me: What, is everyone waiting for the dish fairy to come do them?
Son:  Probably!

This morning I was folding sheets, and I realized I should probably teach this skill to my teenager. (disclaimer: The Mom of No did not learn how to fold a fitted sheet until I was 40. Thank you, YouTube!).  So I called her over.

Me:  I'm going to show you how to fold a fitted sheet.
Teenager:  Why do I need to know that?
Me: So that you can keep your sheets folded neatly in a drawer or closet.
Teenager:  What if I don't care if they're neatly folded?

I really need to do a better job of getting these kids to do more for themselves.  One will be leaving for college in 2.5 years, and I don't really want her roommate thinking, "wow, doesn't she know how to do anything?' It's hard for me to give someone else a task and then not want to take over when I see that it's not the way I would do it.  However, when she moves into her dorm, I won't be there to supervise.  She will be on her own.

The teenager does know how to bake, and she's good at it.  At least baking is one of those skills you can barter with.  If you can provide delicious baked goods, you are welcome almost anywhere.  But her college roommate may not want her tossing her clean clothes all over the floor, or leaving toothpase on the countertop in the suite bathroom.  Clearly,  I have some work ahead of me.  Watch out, kids.

Band Pies

One of my less favorite parts of parenting is fundraisers. I know they're necessary, but I still don't like them, and I suspect that I am not alone.    The suggestions of people to sell to on the fundraiser forms always make me laugh; my parents live in another city, most of my relatives live out of state,  my employer frowns on fundraising activities at work, and most of my friends also have kids who are fundraising, so that leaves a very small pool of potential targets- I mean, customers.  It ends up sounding like this:

Mom #1: Does anyone want to buy a band pie?
Mom #2: I'll buy a band pie if you buy some popcorn.
Mom #3: I'll buy a band pie if you buy some cookies.
Mom #4: I'll buy a band pie if you buy some wrapping paper.
Mom #5: I'll buy a band pie if you buy a softball raffle ticket.
Mom #6: I'll buy a band pie if you buy a poinsettia.
Mom #7: I'll buy a band pie if you buy a discount card.
Mom #8: I'll buy a band pie if you buy a band pie.

I hate asking people for money, even if it is for a good cause, and we all know who is doing the real work when it comes to sorting and delivering the goods.  The sacrifices we make for our kids.  At least now we have Facebook, so I can put my band pie purchasing plea out there without actually having to ask anyone.  It's an introvert's dream come true.

Today, at 5 PM,   the teenager and I will be taking possession of several band pies and attempting to deliver them to their owners before the pies thaw.  The pies themselves are tasty; I bought three for my own household, two of which will be eaten ten minutes after I take delivery of them.  The third one is supposedly for Thanksgiving dessert, if it lasts that long which it probably won't unless I hide it somewhere in the freezer in a box labeled "Tofu Surprise, 2011", and even then I'm still taking a risk.

Last night I had an intense nightmare which involved a scenario in which I (1) lost the money I had collected to pay for the band pies and (2) found out that I had put the wrong pies on the order form so that the people who wanted apple got key lime, and the person who got the peanut butter pie has a nut allergy.  The dream ended with a crowd of angry people carrying pitchforks and torches running me out of town while yelling "we wanted pumpkin rolls, not cream cheese braids! String her up by her thumbs!". 

No, I'm not having angst about this, or anything.

I know that the pie fundraiser helps keep the band costs down, so I'm not really complaining about it even though it sounds like I am.  The teenager has learned a lot from being in high school band, and the life skills she's gained are definitely worth the work involved in selling and delivering the pies.  Besides, I have one thought that keeps me going even through the dark and discouraging times of pie sales frustration:

Next year, the teenager will be sixteen and will have a driver's license.  She can deliver her own band pies.

Frustration

Since last Friday, I've been following the news on the Paris attacks, and watching the fallout on Facebook. Looking at Facebook is like watching a car accident on the opposite side of the highway- you know you should pay attention to your own driving, but your neck moves on its own to look.  It takes me awhile to absorb events like Paris, because I tend to see the world as one big connected ecosystem  and because of that, nothing is ever as simple as it looks at the start. 

I'm old enough to remember, as an adult, at least three events that made the world- or at least my part of it- come to a standstill:  the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, 9/11, and the Paris attacks.  In 1995 and 2001, social media wasn't a thing; people still got their news from TV and newspapers and if you wanted conspiracy theories you listened to talk radio.  Now, of course, you can just log on to Facebook and look at your newsfeed. Based on some of the stuff I've seen, that might actually be a step backwards for civilization.

I've read quite a few posts and online articles related to the Paris attacks.  I've read much that is inspirational, and I've also seen the events of the last few days turned into the opportunity to take a political stand of one kind or another.  The Mom of No is no theological or political guru- those are all outside my area of expertise, and I just don't see myself as an inspirational writer. What I'm left with- besides the feeling of utter pain for the people of Paris- is feelings of inadequacy and frustration.

In 1995, 2001, and now, in 2015, evil people did evil things.  As a parent, I feel that I should be able to offer insights into events like this to my offspring- it's easier when they are younger; what they really want to know then is "will I be safe?".  With teenagers, it seems that more insight is required, and I feel inadequately prepared for the task.  Evil people have done something evil.  The world contains good, and the world contains evil.  We can and should combat evil by doing good at every opportunity- but from the beginning of time until the end of time there will be evil, and usually it will defy a satisfactory explanation. The best I can offer is what I'm often telling the Son of Never Stops Eating: you cannot control what other people do; you can only control your response to their actions. 

It's frustrating to look at Facebook, or other media, and see how quickly discussion disintegrates into paranoia, finger-pointing, name-calling, and  political posturing.  I don't think anyone really changes their mind about an issue because of a Facebook meme; those really appeal to people who already think that anyway (although some of them are very clever).  For people who are convinced that they know how to resolve a significant problem, and that the solution is simple, and that anyone who does not see it exactly the way that they do should be immediately branded as (insert derogatory name-calling here) and dismissed, social media is their playground.  Some people are exquisitely skilled at responding to them; I feel quite inadequate to the task and that frustrates me too.

Every issue seems to have become an "all or nothing" line drawn in the digital sand- either you think exactly like me, or you are completely against me.  50 years from now, when I'm in the Retirement Home for Mean Mothers, I wonder what I'll be telling my great-grandchildren about our reactions to these events.  I honestly hope it's not "we had chances to get our crap together, and we totally screwed it up for you"- but that may be exactly what I'm telling them.

Do Hamsters Get Married?

When the Son of Never Stops Eating was younger, I felt compelled to explain to people we encountered that he was on the autism spectrum and that was the reason for any odd behaviors they might observe.  I haven't really felt the need to do that in quite some time; either people know us, or they can think what they want.  But sometimes the people around us in public situations probably overhear some very intriguing conversations.

For example, my son is obsessed with hamsters- we are on our fourth hamster.  Extreme interest in specific subjects, like LEGOs, or streetlights, is a classic autism trait.  Sometimes it drives me nuts, especially if I've been around him all day, and it often leads to conversations that go like this:

Son: Mom, can hamsters get married and have babies?
Me: Hamsters like to be alone, so they probably wouldn't want to get married.
Son: But the babies would be SO CUTE!
Me: We don't need any hamster babies.
Son: But they could be a hamster family!

Believe me, the last thing that I need is a hamster wedding in my household.  I know they are adorable, but they escape from their cages and wreak havoc wherever they go.  Did you know hamsters can chew drywall?  That they can crawl into tiny crevices in your house and reside there for days?  One hamster is tolerable, but a family of hamsters?  Not happening.

He has no filter, so he says whatever comes to mind at the moment.  This also leads to interesting interactions.  A year ago, we were part of a group of people visiting a Jewish temple as part of his confirmation class at our church.  The rabbi asked if anyone in the congregation had good news they wanted to share, and my son put his hand up.  I whispered to him in my best mad mom voice to put his hand down, but it was too late. He announced to the entire congregation that he had "ditched school" that day (he hadn't- that was totally wishful thinking on his part).  I think people were laughing, in a good way- but I was too busy trying to decide whether to laugh myself, or die from embarassment.

He is also obsessed with a video series called "Making Fiends".  The main character is a girl named Vendetta, who seems to have social skills problems of her own.  I'm sure that the people who overheard a recent conversation about Vendetta and her fiends were scratching their heads in confusion. 

Son: Mom, I don't like Vendetta.
Me: I know. You've told me several times.
Son: Vendetta makes fiends, and they took over Clamburg.
Me: I know.
Son: Mom, do you like Vendetta?
Me:  (screaming silently in my head because we've had this conversation six times already).

If anyone has good tips on drywall repair, let me know. I know what one hamster can do.  I can't imagine what damage a hamster family could do.  Hopefully I will not find out.

The Struggle is Real

The big Facebook news of the week is that Starbucks is at war with Christmas because their cups are red but not imprinted with anything -just red.  Who comes up with this stuff? (don't answer- that was a rhetorical question).  Right now, at this very minute, I am drinking coffee from a white styrofoam cup. I am a sinner.

Plenty of people have written great stuff on this "War on Christmas", so I'm not going there. The Mom of No has no time for any War on Christmas.  I have a different holiday-related problem: The War on Getting Stressed Out About Christmas.  Actually, it's not really a war- it's more like an ongoing struggle.  It is the Struggle Against Christmas Related Self-Induced Stress.

One of the biggest problems is that  Christmas comes at the end of the year, and a lot of things have to be done at the end of the year.  All the health insurance deductibles have been met. So every family member gets to go to the eye doctor! the dermatologist! The dentist! And everyone else is doing the same thing, so you're competing against everyone else in America who has met their deductibles at a time of the year that all the doctors are taking off work because it's Christmas. Nothing says holiday cheer like an eye doctor appointment (at least they don't weigh you).

Another point of stress is the famous "last minute offspring need".  Say, just as an example- not saying this happened in my household, it's just an example- a certain individual needs a black dress to wear to a school event.  You cannot buy a black dress while speed shopping.  Well, you can, but you'll probably end up returning it to the store- and the only Christmas shopping activity more stressful than buying something is returning something. 

Then of course there's the stuff that we're all familiar with - the decorating, and the baking, and the shopping, because we all know that this is really "Mom" stuff (although in our household the Dad of No puts up the tree; if it were up to me, I would never get around to it).  I decided a few years ago to stop sending cards because nearly everyone I send a card to is also my friend on Facebook, but people keep sending me cards so then I feel slightly guilty about the not sending cards thing, because obviously if they have time to do it, then I should have time to do it.

Every year I think that this will be the year we show up at Christmas Eve services with everyone's hair freshly cut (never happens) with new outfits (doesn't happen), and I will have glorious baskets of freshly baked cookies to pass out to everyone I know (doesn't happen) from the Christmas cookie exchange I keep saying I'm going to organize (very likely won't happen this year either).  All my shopping will be done before Thanksgiving, online (definitely doesn't happen) to free up December for fun holiday events (sitting in the dermatologist's waiting room).

Every year I say that I'm not going to get stressed out about Christmas. I'm going to be zen and I'm going to work out and maintain my weight, and not eat too much.  And every year I get stressed out anyway, and I find myself in the woods doing my primal stressed out holiday scream.  I don't need a red coffee cup with Christmas symbols on it.  I need a red coffee cup with an adult beverage in it.

Decluttering

This is the time of year where the Mom of No casts her eyes upon her abode and vows to undertake a massive cleanout.  Nothing is to be held back.  For some reason, the combination of a just-past birthday and the upcoming holiday season sets off an alarm in the Mom of No's brain that screams "DECLUTTER! DECLUTTER!".  It is an urge that cannot be resisted.

The problem is that decluttering and organizing is one of those projects that sound really good in theory, but often falls apart in execution. Every so often I go to The Container Store and walk around in a dream trance, imagining just how wonderfully amazing my life would be if I could just teleport the Container Store into my house.  Throughout the year I read articles on Facebook that urge me to get rid of anything that doesn't bring me joy, or anything that is plastic, or anything that hasn't seen the light of day in a year.  These sites all make it sound so easy, but it's all lies! It's like trying to decorate a cake from a picture on Pinterest- easy for them, not easy for me.

As soon as I start, I run into difficulties.  I get the premise of decluttering.  If you use it, keep it.  If you don't use it, get rid of it.  However, I just can't bear to part with items I no longer use but still have attachments to, like two giant Raggedy Ann/Andy dolls that were mine when I was a child, or a truly awful cactus drawing I did in middle school that my father returned to me a few years ago.

Another difficulty I encounter can be summed up in one word: teenagers.  Teenagers seem to acquire T-shirts just by existing.  When the teenager was younger, she'd head off to Girl Scout camp and I'd suit up in my biohazard gear and venture into her room to bag up hundreds of Happy Meal toys and get them out of the house. T-shirts are like the Happy Meal toys of adolescence.

I don't consider myself a pack rat.  I'm not a hoarder. I have no problems getting rid of things that don't fit, or that I don't like, or that are clearly past their useful lifespan.  But by this point, I've cleared out all the low-hanging fruit.  Books are a real challenge.  I live in a small house.  I don't have a lot of room for books.  Books should be passed around from friend to friend, to enjoy.  However, I bond with my books. I can't bear to bid them adieu, even if I know they're headed to a good home.

I also have a hard time getting rid of anything that might potentially have use at some future time, because that mantra of "use it up, make it do, or do without" keeps playing in my head.  A giant bottle of Sriracha sauce with unknown purchase date? It might still be good.  A bottle of lotion that smells overpoweringly like gardenias? Well, if the zombie apocalypse happens, I might want that to disguise my human odor and slip past the zombie horde (the Mom of No loves The Walking Dead).  Sewing patterns for vests that were in style in 1995?  You never know! After all, the 80's are "in" again!

What I end up telling myself is that I'm just going to stop buying stuff, and eventually everything we own will just get used up and the house will declutter itself by attrition of belongings.  If you're reading this, and you think that's a great idea- I'll just tell you this: that technique doesn't work either.

Middle Aged Mom Problems

Awhile ago, it was brought to my attention that I need to start using reading glasses. I'm not overly excited about this development. It seems that with every passing year every time I go to the doctor, dentist, or optometrist they have some words of gloom to offer.  For example, this gem the last time I had a checkup:

Doctor: You're about that age to get a screening colonoscopy.
Mom of No: What did you say?
Doctor: And maybe a hearing test.

I got the reading glasses, and to be honest, they mostly sat around my house.  If I was trying to read something with tiny print, I'd put them on, but I didn't use them routinely.  Then a few months ago, I realized that I actually could see much better when I was wearing them. 

The problem here is that the reading glasses don't fit in my purse.  Like my son, I do not like change.  I have had the same purse for literally years. I'm actually on my second one; the first one pre-dated the teenager.  Last Christmas, a friend of mine who is a wonderful person hunted one just like it down on eBay for me because the first one was falling apart.  I don't like change and I hate shopping unless it's for items like birding binocs or books, so the glasses not fitting in the purse is a huge issue for me. Either I have to take something out of my purse to fit the glasses in or I have to get a bigger purse.

The situation is as yet unresolved.  It's not just the glasses and the purse- it's things like having people give you confused looks when you talk about the Soviet Union*, or laying in the dentist's chair having your teeth cleaned and hearing Madonna's "Like a Virgin"** over the sound system, or realizing that people who were not yet born the year you graduated from college are now old enough to buy alcohol. 

The other night I was in Target and I decided to get some Angry Orchard hard cider.  The nice young lady at the checkout rang it up, and then said to me,  I need to see your ID.

Really?  I said.  Could she not see the little wrinkles around my eyes, the bits of gray in my hair, the 13 years postpartum Mom bulge around my waist?  Did I really look under 21? Heck yeah, you can see my ID! I'm in my 40's and I still look young enough to have the Target cashier asking me for my ID! Obviously all that staying out of the sun and using sunscreen works! Skin care success!

It's policy, she continued.  We have to ask everyone even if we know they're over 21.  We have to put their birthdate in the computer or it won't let us ring up the sale.  I suppose I looked a little deflated because she smiled at me. You do look young for your age, though, she said. 

At least gray hair is currently "in".  Maybe people will think I paid big money for those gray highlights, instead of having them come in naturally.  I can find solace in that thought, as I agonize over my purse situation.


*Soviet Union=Russia (kind of).  When I was a young'un, we were all terrified the Soviets were going to obliterate us with nuclear weapons. Then stuff happened, the Soviet Union fell apart, and now it's Russia, which is what it was before the Soviet Union.

**The Grandma of No was not a fan of songs like "Like a Virgin", and considered that kind of music appalling. Now it's dentist office music.

Southern Leopard Frog

Southern Leopard Frog (Lithobates spenocephalus)

The Son of Never Stops Eating and I were out for a walk at the nature preserve yesterday, and found this frog just hanging out.  It was a great observation because the frog was willing to just sit there and let me get a few pictures of him.  Usually they flee as soon as they sense human presence.

We had been having an interesting discussion about why wild animals aren't interested in getting close to people.  My son has been learning about predators and prey in class, so I was explaining that these critters probably view us as predators, and my son wanted to know how to tell the animals that he didn't want to hurt them.  Then we came upon this frog, and for a minute or so he got to get up close and look- until the frog decided to hop away and go somewhere else.

Candy Tax

I believe in teaching kids that life isn't always fair.  Sometimes the world is a harsh place.  For example, when the teenager was much younger, she'd saved up her pennies to buy some toy at Target. When we went to buy it, she saw that she had just enough money.  She was so excited until I had to break it to her that she actually didn't have enough money because of sales tax.  That is SO UNFAIR! she yelled.  Kids shouldn't have to pay tax! We're just kids! 

Well, welcome to the real world, kid.  Suck it up, buttercup. 

That was probably the same year that I broke it to them that there was also a Candy Tax.  It comes due every Halloween, right after Trick or Treat is over.   They come home, dump out the loot on the kitchen table, and I go through the candy and pick out all the banana flavored Laffy Taffy and the Three Musketeers bars. 

At first, there was resistance to the Candy Tax.  It was pointed out that it was their candy, and they worked for it, while I just stood on the sidewalk yelling at them to remember to say "Thank you!'. My daughter, who has an outstanding future as a trial lawyer, told me that I could go buy my own candy instead of taking theirs, since I had a car and money.  Finally, I pulled out that ancient but still effective and true parental debate-ender:  you live in my house- you pay the Candy Tax.

Unfortunately for me, however, the Candy Tax has a fatal flaw: the taxpayers grow up.  This year, the Candy Tax will yield half the revenue it usually does, because I have only one trick-or-treater.  The teenager has a band contest. In a few years, there may be no more Candy Tax.  If I want banana flavored Laffy Taffy,  I will have to go buy my own.

And that really is a sad story.

Happy Halloween and be safe!

Survival of the Fittest

The Mom of No is a huge fan of sci-fi post apocalyptic literature.  You know, Stephen King's "The Stand".  The entire Novels of The Change series by S.M Stirling.  Justin Cronin's "The Passage" and "The Twelve".  Stories where the world ends because of plague, or zombies, or vampires, or nuclear warfare, and only a few survivors are left to hash it out for supremacy in the ruins of the modern world.   And every time I read one of these books, the same thought comes to mind:  If something like that actually happened, I'm a goner, because I have no actual real survival skills. 

The people who survive in these books are people who know how to do things- build an entire archery set from the remains of an automobile, for example, or grow crops, or heal extensive wounds using herbs.  The Mom of No knows a lot of things, like how to use Excel and drive a car in rush hour traffic, but these don't seem like marketable post-apocalyptic skills.

In the ideal post-apocalyptic world, the situation would unfold like this:

Mom of No (approaching the gate of a walled in group of survivors): Let me in!
Survivors:  What skills do you have to offer?
Mom of No:  I am the parent of teenagers.
Survivors (opening gate and bowing low)  Please come in.  We need a leader.

However, it would more likely go like this:

Mom of No: Let me in!
Survivors: What can you offer?
Mom of No: Awesome Powerpoint skills!
Survivors: Go away.

I'm not completely helpless. I know how to cook- using an electric oven, and ingredients obtained at the grocery store.  The Grandma of No taught me to sew, using an electric sewing machine.  I am quite good at unclogging toilets, and I am skilled at writing letters to health insurance companies explaining why they are wrong and I am right.  But I can't see that there is much application here for a world without electricity, plumbing, or health insurance.   In other words, if the zombies come, I'm doomed.  With teenagers in the house, I can't even keep more than a 5 hour supply of food around.

I was explaining this to a friend of mine several months ago, and she pointed out that I do know a little bit about mushrooms.  Yeah, enough to know not to eat anything I find, I said. Eat the wrong one, and you die a painful death.  That's it, she said.  You could be an assassin- stealthily killing evildoers by feeding them poisonous fungi.

Well, there you go.  Hapless middle-aged woman by day, stealthy fungi-wielding assassin by night. I hope I live out my years only reading about the end of the world, not actually living it; I prefer to keep my day job. And electricity and indoor plumbing. 

Transition Fair

This weekend, I performed an annual Mom of No ritual, which is called "Attending the Special Needs Transitions Fair".  In the past, I've gone mainly to see what programs were out there and get a general idea of what I would be facing as the Son of Never Stops Eating got older.  However, it's getting real now- when I looked at the paperwork for his upcoming annual ARD*, I realized that he'd been invited to participate for the first time.  I'm glad; he should be involved in his own educational decision making.

Transition planning for a special needs child is like trying to climb Everest in a blizzard while wearing bedroom slippers and a blindfold.  When people see homeless people in downtown areas, they think various things- he's a drunk,  he must be crazy, she could get a job at McDonald's instead of panhandling, he uses drugs.  I think this:  If I screw this up, that could be my son someday. 

I enjoy my kids, but at some point in their adult lives, I do want them to move out**. I can't convert a bedroom into a quilt sewing room/library if an adult kid is actually still using it, right?   The teenager seems to get that; she doesn't even want to share a state with her parents once she turns 18 since she's looking at out of state colleges.  My son, however, is a different story: I asked him what he wanted to do after he finished school and he said "I want to live with you".  He seems to have the idea that once he's done with school, it will be nonstop Legos, iPad time and Nickelodeon 24/7; that is not the plan that the Mom of No has in mind.  The Mom of No's plan at this time is actually not really a plan, it is more of a nebulous concept of bits and pieces that sound promising and that are going to be held together with duct tape, sweat and prayer.

The issues that adults with special needs face regarding employment, housing, transportation and other aspects of independent living are not a priority for policy makers. In this country we like complicated problems to have easy answers, and in this case the answer is that families with special needs members are on their own.  I suspect that when people think of "autism", they think of little kids, with little kid issues- but kids grow up (as I am finding out), and they can't stay in school forever.

I have about 10 years to plan, and I hope that it is enough time-  I pray that my son can find meaningful work, that he can eventually live in a home of his own, that he will have friends, that he will be part of a faith community where he will be welcome, that people will watch out for him so that he won't be abused or taken advantage of.  Above all, I hope that the safety net that our small family-and hopefully, our extended community- will weave for him will be strong enough to last his entire life.

It's a hike up Everest; I have my hiking boots on, and off we go.


*If you are reading this and you are lost, then you are probably not a special needs parent; an ARD is an acronym for "Admissions, Review and Dismissal", also known as a periodic meeting with your school regarding your child's special education placement.

** He's actually welcome to live with me as an adult although at some point he probably won't want to.  I said something once to someone about how my goal was for him to live independently as an adult and the response was that I was a horrible heartless person. I'm really not, but I do have a finite life span (like all of us), so he can't live with me forever.

The Mom of No: NOT a candidate

The other day I was hanging out with the Son of Never Stops Eating, and he looked over at me and said, "Mom, you should run for President."

Now, I am absolutely honored that my kid thinks I'd be a good President, but in reality this is a bad idea.  First of all, I'd have to quit my day job to run, and I like my job.  Also, I have no political infrastructure, or money, or even any real interest.  The teenager would be furious if I told her that she had to change schools, and I'm not sure the Secret Service would be too excited about providing protection for a kid in the marching band.  My Band Mom days would be over.  Logistically, I'm not feeling the love.

Also, to be honest, I'm certain that I could never get elected, because the minute I opened my mouth I would be sure to alienate potential voters.  That smooth political talk doesn't come easily to me.  I just don't possess that kind of filter.  I can also envision the commentary that would come along with my first debate:

Commentator #1: Our next candidate, the Mom of No, is taking the podium.
Commentator #2: Is she wearing hiking boots?
Commentator #1:  I think she's tracking mud in on the floor.

I'm also too much of a pragmatist, and I'm way too sarcastic to be a good candidate. For example:

Moderator: Mom of No, what would be your administration's top priority?
Mom of No:  Infrastructure.
Moderator: What about family values?
Mom of No: Well, it's kind of hard to have dinner with the fam if you're stuck in traffic, capisce?

I'd also feel the urge to dispense mom advice to my opponents:

Moderator: What do you say about your opponent's attack on your candidacy?
Mom of No: Instead of saying nasty things about other people, you should worry more about your own business. At your age, you should really know better.

Moderator:  What would you do to help the economy?
Candidate #1:  Well, that's a great question. We really should be talking about the economy, because the economy involves answering some tough questions about how we should be addressing the issue of the economy, and by talking about the economy perhaps we can start having a dialogue about the economy.
Moderator: Mom of No, what is your response?
Mom of No: Maybe he should try again- he didn't answer your actual question.

I'm not sure why my son thinks I'd be a good president; knowing him, he's probably got some ulterior motive in mind like thinking that he wouldn't have to go to school, or as the First Son he'd get unlimited access to Legoland whenever he wanted, or he could have chicken tenders for dinner every night.  I can, however, assure the five people who might actually consider voting for me that I will not be running.  I just can't see the Secret Service agreeing to pull over to the side of the road every time I saw a bird or a mushroom I wanted to look at.  The Mom of No has her priorities straight.

A Confession

The Mom of No has a confession to make.  It's something that I need to say, but some may find it to be heresy.  At the risk of being strung up by my toenails in the town square, here it is:  I like my kids better now that they're older.

It isn't that my kids weren't cute babies and toddlers.  They were both adorable.  I have plenty of funny stories and great memories from those years.  But young children are also high maintenance.  Going anywhere, even to the grocery store, was a logistical nightmare.  I don't think I ever did get the whole car seat thing straight.   Talking to other mothers was like walking through a minefield. Every issue had potential for intense disagreement, whether it was breastfeeding, working or not working, or where the baby was sleeping.  For the first three years of my daughter's life, everything sent me running to "What to Expect The Toddler Years".  I suspect that the Grandma of No did a lot of eye rolling when I'd talk to her on the phone, because I was the Mom of Clueless. 

I remember people telling me when my offspring were small that the teen years were some horrible stage where one night your sweet compliant child went to bed and woke up looking and acting like something out of The Exorcist, and  that he or she stayed like that until they hopefully moved out of your house at 18, at which point (if you were wise), you would change your name and move.  The teen years are God's way of preparing you for the empty nest, people said.  Enjoy them now while they still want to talk to you.   

Then the dreaded transition started happening to me. My daughter outgrew girls' sizes.  You'll have to go over to juniors', the saleslady said.  The registration forms for sixth grade showed up in the "go home binder".   One day, she -gasp- ROLLED HER EYES AT ME.  The situation was dire! I was about to become that most pitied of creatures: the parent of a TEENAGER.  Even worse, her brother was only a few years behind her. It was time to start thinking about running away from home.

However, I also started noticing that she was becoming more independent, as was her brother.  If I needed to run to the market for a dozen eggs, I could leave her and her brother at home. She got braces and when I asked the dentist what she needed to do to take care of them, he said "We've already talked about it, Mom- it's her responsibility to do it". No one expected me to help with school projects (not a strength of the Mom of No). 

It's not all happy fun times.  Eye rolls, attitude, the stress of high school academics, the looming specter of young adulthood.  Teenagers use all your data, eat all your food, and cost you a fortune in auto insurance.  They use slang that baffles the Mom of No. They seem to prefer clothing stores that play really loud music. As a parent, you pray that they can get to adulthood without making horrible life-changing mistakes.  Their risk-assessment skills are not yet fully operational. But talking to teenagers can be fun.  They have interesting ways of looking at the world.  They have amazing amounts of energy, and they often have the willingness to use it for good causes.

Teenagers can also bake.  One night last summer, the teenager suddenly said that she wanted chocolate cake, and she went into the kitchen. I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, there was a half-eaten, freshly baked chocolate cake in the kitchen.  The sink was full of unwashed bowls and measuring cups, sure- but there was chocolate cake.  Chocolate cake that someone who was NOT the Mom of No had baked.

Toddlers don't bake chocolate cake.

Groceries

The Mom of No has learned a valuable lesson, and it is this:

Do not take teenagers to the grocery store. 

I don't know if anyone else has had the experience of taking a toddler to the grocery store and finding out at checkout that the little darling slipped some Oreos or animal crackers in the basket while you weren't looking, but shopping with teenagers is like that - only on a grander scale. Instead of one package of Oreos, we are talking $100 worth of groceries that will get eaten in two days because teenagers do three things: eat, sleep, and roll their eyes at you.

The Mom of No recently made a quick stop for "just one thing" at the store, but unfortunately for my budget, I had the Son of Never Stops Eating with me.  As I wheeled the buggy around looking for the one thing I was there to get, the conversation starts going like this:

Son: Mom, we need more milk.
Me: No, we don't.  I saw two gallons in the fridge yesterday.
Son:  I drank it all.

Son: Mom, we need more pudding.
Me: No, we don't.  I saw some in the pantry this morning.
Son: I ate it all.

Son: Mom, we're out  of bread.
Me: No, we're not.  We had two loaves yesterday.
Son:  It's all gone. I ate three cheese sandwiches for breakfast.
Me: Are you serious?
Son:  We need more cheese, too.
Me: Is there anything left in the house to eat?
Son: Just yucky stuff no one wants like carrots.

Then I made a bad, bad mistake.  He looked up at me (ok, down at me) with his adorable brown eyes and said, "Can I get some cereal?"

Sure, I said. Go get what you want.  I'm trying to work on life skills with him, and grocery shopping is a life skill. However, he seems to be much better at finding the stuff he likes, as opposed to the food items he doesn't like.   He runs off and comes back with Cap'n Crunch Oops All Berries (don't judge).   The family size, of course.

Finally we go through the checkout line.

The friendly, helpful cashier looks at me and indicates that I owe her an unexpectedly large sum of money, considering that I was only planning on buying one thing. I look at her and say, "This is two days worth of groceries!" She smiles in sympathy and says, "You must have teenagers at home".  The woman in line behind me says "I have four boys.  Be glad you're not me.  I spent $250 yesterday and here I am, again".  Parents of babies bond over sleep deprivation; parents of teenagers bond over groceries.

I am in shock as I fork over payment. Almost $90 for one can of black beans and a few other things?  I get in the car and look at the receipt, half convinced that errors were made.  I didn't buy that much, did I?  Cheese.  Bread.  Milk.  Eggs.  Oreos.  Yogurt.  Bananas (see, there's something healthy!) Black beans (one can).  Cap'n Crunch cereal, $4.99.  Yes, I know.  $5 for a box (family size) of sugary cereal.

It got eaten in two hours.

Fungi Find!

My fungi hunting has been on  hiatus due to a dry, hot summer.  However, the other day I was driving down the road and spotted something promising in a road median.  It was a day or so before I was able to go back and take a look, and when I did I found this:

This is not the usual green spore parasols that I tend to find in road medians around here.  The caps were dry to the feel, and there were several growing in clusters.  I pulled one out of the ground and got this:

Mushrooms can be hard to identify,but if  you want to at least narrow it down a bit, you would need to know what is underneath the cap.  In this case, hopefully you can see the pores.  This tells me that this fungi is a member of the bolete family, but to narrow it down further, it's necessary to get a spore print to see the color of the spores.   To get a spore print, you take the fungus and place it on a piece of paper, spore side down, and place a glass cup or bowl over it:

And leave it, preferably overnight.  Sometimes the fungus will start dropping spores the minute it's set down on the paper, but this one was probably old and I got almost nothing from it, even after letting it sit all night.  Since you don't always know what the color of the spore will be (the color of the fungi isn't necessarily the same color as the spores), it's helpful to get two samples if you can and try one on black paper and one on white paper.

I took another fungi from the field and cut it in half and got this:

It immediately started turning blue once it was cut in half.  Sometimes that can help in the ID, as can the shape of the stem. 

The one field guide for fungi in this area is out of date, and there are a lot of variables to consider, so getting a good ID isn't always possible.  In this case, I'm going to stick with "bolete". Without a spore print I can't be 100% sure of anything. Even though I can't be sure, though, I still have fun finding and observing what I find.  One thing is for sure:  I do not eat anything I find- even if the field guide says it could be edible.  I don't want to find out the hard way that I am wrong! When I am in the mood to eat mushrooms, I stick to the ones for sale in the grocery store.

Shopping Day

The Mom of No is in need of an adult beverage and a week on the beach.

The reason:  I took my on-the-autism-spectrum son shopping for winter clothes this morning.

Three things you need to know about my son before you can appreciate the situation I find myself in: (1) he won't wear anything that is not soft, and by soft I mean no tags, no itchy, no scratchy, no texture, no stiff fabrics, no waistband, no jeans, no khakis. (2) he cannot be bribed, incentivized, cajoled, or threatened. (3) he had a huge growth spurt over the summer and his hem of his pants from last year is now located right below his knees.

So off we go to the local branch of a national department store chain to do some exploratory shopping.  For years I have gotten away with boys' sweatpants at Target for winter, boys' shorts from Target in the summer, and shirts from the Lands End kids' catalog, but now he has outgrown the biggest sizes in all these and the Mom of No is in uncharted territory.  Oh, now I need to mention one more thing you should know: he hates change.  For months I tried to get rid of a beloved orange shirt he'd outgrown.  I'd put it in the Goodwill box; he'd go get it.  I'd take it back; he'd reclaim it.  He wore it every other day forever even though it was two sizes too small and full of holes; his teacher was probably convinced that he only had two shirts to his name. He had other shirts but they weren't the favorite shirt.

We walk around the store and I show him various styles and fabrics of pants. I pick out a pair of very soft khaki pants made out of some synthetic fabric and present them to him, sure of immediate victory.  I mean, these pants are like butter. I'm already mentally congratulating myself on a very lucky find. 

He feels them for a minute and just when I think I have him, he points to the mesh pockets.  "They're itchy!" he says.  "I don't like those pants".   I point out that he hasn't even tried them on. "I'm not trying them on! I know they're itchy!" he says, glaring at me.  Okay, back on the rack.

"How about jeans?" I ask.  He shakes his head furiously.  "I HATE JEANS!" he says, waving his arms around.  "JEANS ARE EVIL!". Ok then, no jeans.

I show him another kind of soft khaki pants but the waistband is set in.  He stands in front of me, arms crossed. "I HATE PANTS!" he declares. "NO PANTS! I just want to wear SHORTS!"

Now, at this point, you are thinking, just TELL him he has to wear what you pick out. Be The Mom of No! Lay down the law! Tell him to suck it up! Tell him it's a sad story!  I did that once, with an itchy shirt for a boys' organization that he was in, and let's just say that it did not go well.

Finally I pull out yet another pair of soft pants, with an elastic waistband, no mesh pockets.  He lifts his arms up to the sky and throws out his hands in front of him.  "NO!  I just want sweatpants.  None of these pants are SOFT".  His refusal is complete and final.  It's the showdown at the JC Penney Corral.  I resort to logic and reason- the only tool in the Mom toolbox left to me since bribery and cajolery have been proven ineffective time and time again.

But you've outgrown everything you have, I tell him.  You need to wear more than sweatpants.  You can't walk around naked. What are you going to wear when it starts getting really cold and it's not warm enough for shorts? 

He looks at me like I've given him a gift and I realize I've just walked into a trap.   He gets a look of glee in his eyes, starts jumping up and down, and says  "Yay! No clothes! NO SCHOOL! I can stay home FOREVER!". 

We are now heading off to the sporting goods store for sweatpants.

Band Mom

The Mom of No is a Band Mom.  Not a good one, because I am not really a joiner, and I don't do booster clubs very well.  But I do own a Band t-shirt now, so that makes it official.

Having a teenager in marching band is like being in a cult.  You are sucked in slowly, starting in sixth grade, and before you know it- bam! You're wearing a band mom T-shirt, working in a concession stand at football games, and putting band stickers on your vehicle. 

I should have known something was up at the end of my daughter's fifth grade year, when we went over to the middle school to sign up for band and get an instrument assigned.  It was determined that she and the clarinet would be a good match, so I went over to sign up for a clarinet.

Music store guy:  The clarinet will be $40 and then the insurance and loss waiver is another $10.
Me:  $50? Wow, that's not bad at all. I thought it would be more.
Music store guy:  A month.  For four years.
Me: Are you serious?  $2500 for a clarinet? (thinking, does it HAVE to be band?  What about choir?)

Then the clarinet came home.  The first month it was like hearing a dying elephant. The sound was horrifying.  Our elderly border collie went and hid under the bed, whimpering.  The noise-sensitive sibling would walk around with his hands over his ears, grimacing in pain.  The entire household and the neighbors surrounding us for about a 5 mile radius were all suffering.  But lo and behold- one evening I was in the kitchen, baking- and instead of screeching and wailing, I heard actual music coming from the sixth-grader's room.  It was a MIRACLE!

Three years later, I'm sitting in the high school band hall, listening to the Head Band Mom explain the rules of the Band Family Cult.  For example, you have no life between August 1 and the end of marching season in November.  Make no plans.  It reminded me of being a park ranger, when you worked on the 4th of July unless you had a funeral to attend (your own) or you were in active labor (female rangers only- if your wife was in active labor, you were out of luck).  At first I thought they were kind of joking, and then I got the Band Schedule, which started out:

August 1:  First Day of Marching Practice, 7AM-12 Noon/7 PM to 9 PM.

7 AM, I thought. That's not too bad.  We live 5 minutes from the high school.  Then my daughter clarifies the situation for me.

Me: I guess we can leave around 6:55 AM for the school.
Teenager:  MOM! We have to leave around 6 AM! That means be ON THE FIELD READY TO MARCH AT 7 AM! I have to do all this (band related preparation stuff that the Band Mom of No does not understand, but is obviously extremely important to the teenager).

Then, a few weeks later, I find myself in a concession stand.  Making nachos.  Working in a concession stand is also a lot like being a park ranger, except you stay in one place and you have no citation book.  Just like in the parks, most people are great, but you have the occasional kid that wants to give you a $100 bill for a $.50 piece of candy, or the guy that said "Maybe if they paid the employees more they could get faster workers".  Uh, dude, seriously?  We're volunteers! Chill! You can wait 3 minutes for a churro!

Band kids are probably some of the most dedicated teenagers on the planet.  They get up at 0530 hours in the summer to march around on a hot parking lot in 100 degree weather for hours.  They have no weekends free in the fall. They're either playing at a football game or at a marching contest.  They arrive home after an away game at midnight and then sit at the kitchen table until 2 AM doing their Geometry homework.  They have no time to get into trouble because they're either marching, doing homework, or sleeping.  Somehow, they manage to march in patterns while playing music that they have less than two months to learn from scratch, and they make it look like they've been doing it forever. 

Last week, I was at the high school football game. I don't really know anything about football, I was there to see the band show.  Our team was slightly behind getting their butts handed to them on a platter.  People were leaving in droves.  It was cold.  But the band was still there, playing the fight song. And I was still there, freezing my butt off, because I am a band mom. 

That's a Sad Story

In my parenting career, the two best pieces of advice I have received are (1) that newborns need to learn the difference between day and night, so when they wake up at night don't do anything but feed them and change the diaper and then put them back to bed; and (2), the phrase "that's a sad story".

A co-worker of mine put me on to "that's a sad story".  It has so many applications, and it's incredibly adaptable to almost any situation involving children and teenagers.  Instead of arguing, or debating, or encouraging continued whining/complaining/tattle tale telling, just reply: "That's a sad story".  For example:

Kid: MOM! (insert name of sibling) is staring at me!
You:  That's a sad story. (Work it out with them).

Kid:  Everyone in my class except me has a new iPhone!
You:  That's a sad story. (You're not getting one.  Stop pestering me about it).

Kid:  It's not FAIR that I have to (insert name of activity) and no one else does!
You:  That's a sad story. (You still have to do it).

Kid:  This dinner sucks! I want a grilled cheese instead!
You:  That's a sad story.  (Do I look like a chef? Eat what I cooked).

Kid: I have the meanest mother in the world!
You:  That's a sad story.  (Yes, you do. Suck it up, buttercup.)

Kid: I can't find my soccer uniform anywhere in my room!
You: That's a sad story. (If you kept track of your stuff, you could find it).

Kid:  Calls you at work to tell you "I forgot my (iPad/homework/lunch/field trip form)" after you reminded them several times to put it in their backpacks.
You: That's a sad story. (Should have put it in there last night when I told you to).


In order for the Sad Story response to work, you have to be able to deliver it with a straight face, or at least one that manages to convey that special parental look that says "I feel your pain, but I'm not giving in".  You also can't actually give in.  If your kid can't find the soccer uniform, and you tell her "That's a sad story", and then you actually go look for it, then you've diluted the effectiveness.  The idea is for them to take the responsibility on themselves to find it in in the ecological disaster that is their room instead of foisting off that task onto you.  The first few times you use it, you will likely encounter extreme resistance to the technique.  That's okay; just don't give in.

Of course, be prepared - if you have kids like The Mom of No's offspring- to have it repeated back to you.  The other day, my son came over to me as I was working in the kitchen.  He stood there for a minute, smiled at me, and said, Mom, is it hard to be you?

Yes, I told him. You have no idea how hard it is to be me. 

Mom, he says, That's a sad story.