Third Anniversary Lists IV: The Complaint Department

Welcome to the Complainable COMPLAINTS of 2015. I am your guest host of this blog post, Partial/incomplete Monochrome Persona, or PiMP. Full Spectrum Mama usually takes the free time afforded her by my guest posts to sleep and grade and eat the necessary chocolate to prepare to teach long, hopefully non-boring philosophy lectures travel to exotic locales where she combines saintly deeds with sybaritic indulgences. So here we are, just you and me, dear reader…ready?

Almost a year ago, following 2014’s COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT, PiMP got a COMPLAINT for apologizing to a Complainant about something cruddy in their life. This Complainant argued that such soothing and comforting hogwash was not PiMP’s way and I agree. Here, COMPLAINTS are about being heard -- not being answered sweetly  or fixed, especially when THE COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT (TCD) is only officially open one day a year (on the 32^nd of Nevruary).

This year, your COMPLAINTS are all jumbled together, from pathos to bathos, giggles to grumpers, from COMPLAINTS about difference to COMPLAINTS about conformity to COMPLAINTS about, well, shopping…

We accept ALL acceptable COMPLAINTS here at TCD, and then we COMPLAIN them; although sometimes, people, you should stop flapping at the jib in public.

COMPLAINTS

* Let us begin with a deceptively innocuous COMPLAINT from FSM herself, who has shared many of her COMPLAINTS in previous posts, although she is saving up some doozies: I could be doing any kind of housework and the kids are nowhere to be seen but the instant I reach into my secret [medically-necessary] candy stash  -- “What are you doing, mom?” – here they come!

* My complaint is I am too overly busy to complain.

* Online adoption groups that act all surprised that people are curious about inter-racial families.

* This. Winter.

* In dealing with the oh so numerous challenges of adult life (single parenting, chronic illness, work stress, etc.), as the parent of a child on the spectrum, I am held to an absurdly high standard.  Spectrum-y kids use their parents as a barometer, often co-regulating off of us, so we can never, ever lose it, or even falter a little, without throwing a wrench into an already challenging situation.

(NB: Neither Full Spectrum Mama nor PiMP wrote the above COMPLAINT?!)

 * Some special angel who has a son with Sensory Processing Differences sent PiMP an entire LIST of COMPLAINTS – MWAH!

Complaint #1: I HATE that he bites his hand. It drives me CRAZY!!!

Complaint #2: I HATE that he hits our puppy when he gets mad at her. She is a puppy and when she chews on something of his or tries to steal his food, he hits her causing her to go into attack mode.

Complaint #3: I HATE that he jumps up and down, biting his hand and holding onto his sister's head. Oh...and she hates that too.

Complaint #4: I HATE that we have no OT services in our area and have to try and make time to do all of it at home (except for the 30 minutes per week through the school district).

Complaint #5: I HATE how I feel like I am ridiculed for my parenting skills.

Complaint #6: I HATE unsolicited advice.

Complaint #7: My biggest complaint is that I still don't know or completely understand all of his triggers and what will send him into meltdown mode.

* My biggest complaint is the school system in ignoring undiagnosed children who have obvious learning disabilities, and blowing them off

* Family/"Family"

* Competitive Parenting

* The magnetic force that draws children/husbands toward their mother/wife when said mother/wife most wants to be alone.

* The crust that forms on maple syrup bottles after a few weeks and makes it impossible to close the cap all the way.

* Not having time to head outside to enjoy that heartachingly beautiful hour between 2-3pm on a sunny winter afternoon.

* Not being able to prevent pine needles from getting everywhere when you take the Christmas tree out, and having to do it anyway.

* Mucus. The sidewalks and stairs to and from my workplace, restaurants and shopping areas are all dappled with glistening puddles of sluggy oysters in such concentration that it's nearly impossible to preserve ones shoes.  Men of the earth:  it should not be news that this makes you more a vector of viral plague than a testosterone bomb.  I am not convinced of your genetic superiority by the volume of sputum you produce.  Furthermore, It is uncivilized to leave a trail of bodily fluids in your wake.  Please knock it off. Just swallow it already.  Keep your contagion to yourself.

* Husbands who are so Modern/Liberated that they don't mind their wives bringing in most of the income.

* People who stop their cars to force you to jaywalk on their terms. Dear Driver:  My skilled sense of timing was finely honed by the great city of Boston.  I am not a squirrel.  I need neither your permission nor your help.  So, piss off.  I'll cross when I feel like it.

* I hate oatmeal. I hate it. Every morning. Healthy. Disgusting. Hate hate oatmeal.

* People who say "no problem" instead of thank you , or you are welcome.  This isn't new, and it is getting worse!

* My son with Asperger's is just starting to understand the subtleties, ups and downs, and fluidity of friendship.  I am thrilled -- that's not my complaint.  My complaint is that he is looming on the cusp of puberty, and the rules he has worked so hard to learn and understand are about to start changing and shifting at a crazy fast rate. I don't think he can keep up.  Not only that, but before he got the hang of friendship, he wouldn't have cared.  The double-edged sword of helping my kid to a higher functioning level is that now he will notice and care more when he is not successful.

* I hate it when you are paying for something and the cashier asks you if you would also like "something else." Why would you?  Or asks u if you want to contribute to the supermarket charity? No I want to pay for my @/&;@$ item.

* Not enough snow [flag: unacceptable COMPLAINT]

* Non-stop Christmas music -

All day,

24 hrs.

Including the Salvation Army ringing the bell before Thanksgiving and you feel guilty because they are nice to you.

* Supermarkets don't want to double bag and the managers come over to tell the staff not to and the bags are thinner than ever.

* Men's bathrooms run out of soap all the time and how are the employees washing their hands?

* Professional offices where they have the large TVs on with news blaring.

* When you buy newspapers and they have all the ads and flyers in them, or when you buy a magazine and they have all those subscription things in them, and they all fall out.

* Cereal boxes that are hard to open inside and you rip them and the cereal explodes.

* I think we should find the person who invented the halogen headlight for automobiles, strap him to a chair, tape his eyelids open & force him to witness the birth of a star... From six feet away.  Because that's what my drive home is like.

* Having my early morning time (that I only take once in a blue moon) invaded by breakfast needing children would certainly be high on the list if I was compiling it today.

* Parenting a special needs child can put a hell of a lot of strain on a romantic relationship.  Mine didn't survive it (the relationship, I mean -- the kid is thriving).  Undoubtedly, there were other reasons the relationship fell apart, and I will never regret putting my children first, and parenting my children is the most important thing I have ever done -- but I just needed to complain about how hard on a relationship it can sometimes be to parent these wonderful, challenging, different kids.

* My friend received her new “County Gardens Magazine” on 3/13, while I received mine several days later.

* You are the only parent at every school event, every meeting every everything. Your ex calls during one such event – an event you have notified him of several times even though you yourself only know about it from investigation and hearsay – and leaves a message saying he just got your message and nobody ever tells him anything and so naturally he is not at said event, because it is your fault. Because, you know, he is very special and should be sought out and personally informed by both you and your child’s large, urban school, of every event that might interest him.

Then your kid asks if he can call his father, so of course you say yes. He tells his father, “Sorry you were unable to make it. I love you.” And gets off the phone. Then your kid says, “Isn’t dad awesome?” And you crack: “You know who’s awesome?” you say, “the person who drives you everywhere, who attends every event you have ever been part of, every meeting, every school supply trip, every, everything. And you know who else is awesome? the kid who forgives someone who lets him down! THAT is who is awesome!”

Later, you say. “Yes, honey, your dad is awesome.” And your kid says, “You used to think he was awesome, didn’t you?” and you say, “When I married him I did, but…and I still do. And he loves you very much.”

* With three sons I worry about each one having the same struggles the oldest one has. It took until he was in middle school for him to get a diagnosis.

* Dear Complaint Dept.,

I have diarrhea.  And I am at work.  Every time I run to the loo and attempt to achieve a modicum of relief, two people walk in.  I’m outraged, bloated, embarrassed and lurching.

Thank you,

Crappy Complainer

* People are so in search of acceptance and approval.

This concludes the COMPLAINTS for 2015.

It’s never too early to begin feeling outraged for 2016 – so bear in mind that while TCD is rarely open per se, COMPLAINTS are always being reviewed for possible acceptability at jineffable@gmail.com.

Sincerely,

Partial/incomplete Monochrome Persona

Factotum, THE COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT

Guest writer/Troubleshooter @ Full Spectrum Mama

BEING 12

 I was talking with a very close friend about a crisis* G had in school last week and, after I’d been blabbing for some time, she said, “Well, you’re so focused on his autism what with the blog and everything, and, you know, all kids have struggles…”

Oh dear…Is that what people think, that for us it’s all blog and/or autism? To clarify, I have three jobs now. So it’s a privilege to think about this darling blog for even a fraction of a moment. Second, this conversation had nothing to do with the blog [until now, anyway] or G’s having asperger’s. Did I mention autism during my diarrhea of the mouth**? No. This – all this I had been sharing with her about what happened at school, which incident was very painful -- was

about

being

12.

This was, maybe, partly, also, being a child of a tough divorce. But autism? Not so much. The main crisis-inducer here was, again: being 12.  Luckily, we are good enough friends that we were able to clarify our respective perspectives well and move on, but it sure got me thinking…

Is 12 the hardest age? My vote is yes.  You are still so young, but bravely trying to be “grown-up.” You are sullen, self-loathing, monosyllabic; while also still wanting and needing to be taken care of and adored. You are still extremely cute and squeezable, yet you are, at times, a jerk. Other times, you are sweet as sunshine. Then: jerk! Sunshine. Sunshine. Jerk.

It’s SO moody at 12.

Your peers are starting to have serious interest in whoever they might be interested in romantically; and, although you might not be quite there yet, you feel it stirring. And it’s confusing.  Watching G sometimes, one can almost see the new feelings and hormones moving inside him, moving him, like the sap running in trees this time of year.

At 12, most kids won’t admit to still liking to play…and yet they do still like to play, in private or at home with younger siblings.

Sure, maybe for G, he’s a bit developmentally behind his peers, but being 12 is something that happens to most people at some point, whether they are 11 or 13 or…

Being 12 is, for G, about knowing soon you will have to put away your stuffies.

Figure I – G has a LOT of stuffies. His treasured seals [one is a manatee, oops!] are in front.***

Being 12, for G, also means still being enough of a little one to offer your best stuffies to your mom when she is sick.

      Figure II – Healing Stuffies, Blanco and Blancli, on Mama’s Pillow****

Being both of these is tender, and raw, and HUGE.

Sometimes things in the Full Spectrum household are pretty near idyllic, and sometimes they are decidedly not. Sometimes that non-idyllic situation has to do with autism or an attachment disorder or something else entirely…Sometimes, for pure awfulness as well as the occasional marvel, being 12 is enough.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* Yes, I do use this word advisedly.

** I know I promised less diarrhea-focused writing; this is diarrhea of the mouth.

*** Please, those of you for whom this blog is not anonymous, DO NOT SHOW THESE PHOTOS TO YOUR 12 YEAR OLDS!

**** None of these stuffies will be gotten rid of. It’s possible they will “belong” to G’s younger sister in future, or move to FSM’s bed (shh, pardner doesn’t know about this), or be given to deserving, saintly little ones in great need.

Vocal Fry vs. Gortles

Z was waiting for me at pickup the other day with a big, saucy grin on her face. She held up the latest Scholastic book order and announced: “Justin Beaver is in here?…He’s HOT!”

In a sudden transformation as surprising to myself as to Z, Full Spectrum Mama turned into a fascist, super-conservative, sexist anachronism. I heard the following phrase burst from my formerly liberal lips: “You are! Five! Years! Old! Okay, Six! You will NEVER say that word again!”

My rule of fear and oppression complete, Z felt able to respond: “Um, okay Mom.” Eye roll.

Then, resisting the urge to prove that ***I*** am the one who knows not only how to Read but to correctly pronounce Justin Bieber’s name as well, I took a step back to dispassionately analyze my reaction.

The first language Z heard was the local dialect in Fuzhou (a.k.a. Linchuan), in Jiangxi province in China. I am sure she also heard some Mandarin (which I have continued to integrate into her life, though not as much as I’d like). Until she was almost ten months old, she’d never heard a word of English. Nonetheless, Z has been speaking it in complete sentences with perfect diction since she was 18-months old.

What is truly remarkable about her speech to me, though, is the apparent savviness of her tone. She comes across as authoritative yet casually chatty -- much like a clever, popular, connected teen. Perhaps the most obvious element of this mature tone is how she uses the ultimate tool of with it girls everywhere: vocal fry (http://gawker.com/5867222/vocal-fry-is-the-hot-new-linguistic-fad-among-women), see also (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/28/science/young-women-often-trendsetters-in-vocal-patterns.html). Vocal fry sounds rather like a crumpling up of the inquisitive at the ends of her sentences. It’s a mini-hipster-rumble that signifies at once being totally in-the-know and a lack of caring too much.

G rumbles when he talks, too. Because he has some low muscle tone, phlegm often catches in his throat when he speaks and he makes a slight gurgling sound behind his words. I call this “gortles,” as in, “Honey, clear your throat – ya got gortles.”

Low muscle tone also results in lax enunciation of many sounds. This, coupled with his unique cadence -- Pardner often notes how G “sounds like John Wayne” – makes G sometimes hard to understand, particularly for other children.

G has been receiving speech therapy through his school since he his IEP (Individualized Education Program) was initiated years ago. His speech therapist initially maintained that G would “never” make much progress in his speech. I have been able, however, using a rewards system that actually matters to him (pokemon cards), to ease him into the habit of pronouncing many sounds correctly and he has become much easier to understand.

Recently, our dear friends Shu Shu Chuck and Fern Ayi (Auntie [in Mandarin] Fern) came to visit us. They brought lovely educational gifts for the kids and spent lots of doting time with them. Fern Ayi, was even kind enough to get up before dawn with them (“Would it be okay with your mom if you got up?” “Yes!!!” [“No.”]) and feed them bottomless bowls of cereal.

At brunch on Sunday, Chuck noted that same John Wayne cadence to G’s speech. I immediately began to explain that we are working on his speech, that he has help at school and so on.

Chuck looked a little sad. “Why?” he asked. “Why try to change what is unique about him?” He said he thinks G is a “wonderful” kid just as he is and decried our culture’s tendency to try to make everyone the same, and to treat difference as if it is a sickness.

I agreed with him wholeheartedly. Without really considering my audience, I had been making my standard excuses, not really lies per se, but statements intended to placate others who may be critical -- when in fact I think G is PERFECT EXACTLY AS HE IS.

Now to give some legitimacy to Chuck’s words: he is none other than Chuck Hoberman (http://www.hoberman.com/home.html), an amazing inventor and brilliant thinker. Among other things, Chuck designs marvelous toys for curious people of all ages. I think his life and oeuvre give great weight to his contention that we should NOT necessarily try to “normalize” our children’s every atypical quality.

Speaking of normalization, if truth be told, I’d like to ease Z’s speech away from the conformi-cool area of the speech spectrum:

The other night, we went to the local café for pizza night with another family. The sweet, smart mother of Z’s good friend brought her two girls - Z’s good friend and friend’s little sister. I brought along G’s best friend too, to be fair. (The injustice of unequal playdates is one felt and expressed powerfully across the FSM household spectrum.) The boys had their own table and the five of us girls sat at another.

I am always a tiny bit wary of consorting with intact (i.e. not gobsmacked by divorce) families who seem like “normal” people with seemingly neurotypical, psychotypical kids. I am well aware that “seem” may well be the operative word in most cases; also, the above describes most of my friends…I am just setting this story up here. Our family is blended in several more ways than average and I hope I may be forgiven a smidge of healthy, wholesome paranoia.

At the boys’ table, G was talking about one of his favorite subjects, marine biology. He kept referring to “aminals” and his friend would get frustrated and correct him. After resisting the urge for some time I finally butted in, letting G’s friend know that I thought saying “aminal” was “pretty darn cute.” He remained unconvinced. “I think it’s annoying,” he informed us. G’s face fell.

Over at the girls’ table, Z was holding up her knife and fork and looking through them to frame my face. Then, still looking at me, she began to move them around in a kind of criss-cross pattern. In her perfect, angelic, singsong voice, she began to sing a perfectly enunciated little tune: “Cut, cut, cut…Cut my mommy’s face.”

The mother, who was seated next to me, leaned in and asked, very quietly, “Does she have violent tendencies?”

At that moment, I wished for Z to be much, much less comprehensible.

Not for the first time, I found myself simultaneously
1. wishing two opposite things for my two dissimilar children: that G’s speech would be more clear and compelling, and that Z’s speech would be less clear and less compelling; and
2. wishing that in each case I wasn’t wishing what I was wishing.

Despite knowing it was a kind of funny situation, and even with all those nice people around me I felt very lonely just then.

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama