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.