Lyme in the Coconut

     Good news, everyone!  My Terrible Intercontinental Wasting Disease (my TIC-Weed,) or the illness formerly known as my Terrible Iraqi Wasting Disease, now officially has a name.  One recognized by the AMA (the American Medical Association; not to be confused with MMA, where two guys choke each other out until one of them confesses his love for the other.)  You're never gonna guess what it is!  Not even if you fought your way through the labyrinthine subtext of this post's title.  Go on and guess.  I'll wait.

Here's a hint.

      For those of you who still truly haven't figured out the name of my mystery illness, it is -imaginary drum roll- Lyme Disease!  I have to admit, when I was told that my first test for the Lymes was positive, I was pretty much dumbfounded.  I blame it on all that time spent peeing in the woods.  (I'm looking at you, Army.)  Today, at my VA appointment, I was given a for realsies diagnosis.  No more of this, "well, it could be" or "has anyone every suggested."  I finally have a real name for my real disease!  One that is absolutely not just in my head, as I was starting to fear it to be.
     Now, that I have a diagnosis, there is still a long road down which I must drag my nether regions.  But, at least I've actually found the road, instead of just running through the woods all willy nilly.  (Which I have been known to do.  Hence the fact that I now have Lyme Disease.)  So, yay for baby steps!  And for those who wish to know, Lyme Disease does, in fact, blow super hard.  So wear bug spray.

This is my new mascot, Lyme Kitty.  Lyme Kitty does not tolerate bullshit.  If I wasn't allergic to real life kitties, then Lyme Kitty would be my very best friend, and I would take her with me wherever I went.



Even His Dreams Are Different

A sweet, sleeping Skeletor.

     Last night, as usual, Skeletor burst into our room around two in the morning, and jumped headlong into bed with us.  This is so normal, neither I nor Captain Gingerbeard even moved.  However, something kind of special happened this morning when Skeletor woke up.  He opened his eyes, yawned and proceeded to tell me about the nightmare he had.  He described his sisters as zombies, skeletons sitting in chairs and having tea parties, and a whole monster house.  When he finished his story, I did my best caring, consoling mommy routine. 

     "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry you had a bad dream," I said, as I caressed his hair lovingly.

     But then I looked more closely at his face.  He was smiling.  He was more than smiling, even, he was grinning from ear to ear.  Because my child was not describing a nightmare.  He was describing what seemed to be one of the best dreams of his life.  And, I was touched that he wanted to share it with me, as best he could.

      We are new to this whole crazy world of developmental disorders and doctors and therapists.  But, we are learning.  In fact, we pretty much learn something new about our son and his condition every day.  But, today's little peek into Skeletor's world seemed even more intimate than usual.  I can't explain it.  I can't put it into words.  All I can say is that I am thankful for that shared moment with my son this morning.  Even though he pushed his tiny, Flinstone feet into my back all night long.

There's No Time For Pants: The Beginning

     First of all, I had to Google the word 'beginning,' because that shiz just don't look right!  Second, apple flavored rum mixed with Sprite is delicious and magical, much like the tears of a unicorn.  Third, I suppose now is as good a time as any to explain why I named my blog "There's No Time For Pants!"

     Pictured: a very young, newly pregnant me.

     Join me, if you will, back in the days of yore, 2001.  It was a simpler time, in that leopard print tank tops were still cool to wear.  Also, it's nice to see that I've been looking at people like they have purple donkey penises on their foreheads since back in the day!  I was 20 years old, and was just a wee tad bit pregnant with my oldest child, Smarty Pants.  My little brother, Mr. Awesome, happened to be living with me at this time.  Although I was all pregnant and cranky and no fun, my sibling was very much not.  You can probably see where this will lead to problems.

     One night, when I was about three months along, Mr. Awesome had some of his friends over to play vidya games or something.  Around 9:00 (because I was tired from making a human from scratch all day,) I announced that I was going to bed.  Shortly thereafter, I was riding the train to sleepy town.  It was a peaceful, well-deserved sleep full of dreams of a stork bringing me a baby in lieu of actual labor.  At least it was until Mr. Awesome flung my bedroom door open at 3:00  in the damn morning, and screamed, "Kristi, this kid's dying in our living room!"

     I uttered something brave and heroic along the lines of, "The hell he is!"  And then I leapt into action!  As much as a pregnant woman can leap.  I have always slept in just a t-shirt and underwear, and this night was no different.   I vividly recall looking to the corner where I had thrown my pajama pants when I went to bed, and then saying to myself, "There's no time for pants!"

     And, this, my friends, is how I came to find myself attempting life-saving procedures on a friend of my brother's while sporting my underoos.  I ran into my living room, where the young fellow was flopping about on my hard wood floor pretty much exactly like a fish out of water.  His friends, bless their hearts, just watched him as he banged his head on the floor with the intensity of a speed metal drummer.  Of course, not much one can do when someone is seizing, so I just kept him from hitting his head.  He then woke up, was all loopy and post-ictal, and proceeded to vomit on my porch.  Turns out he was an epileptic who thought it was super cool to not take his meds and ALSO TAKE ECSTASY!  Needless to say, he and my brother were not friends long after that. 

     Although I was highly pissed about that kind of nonsense coming into my home, I did take a lesson from that night.  When the poop hits the fan, one must know that there's no time for pants!  I will now end this post abruptly! 

P.S. When homeboy stopped seizing and was obviously okay, I just demurely stood up and excused myself out of a room full of teenage boys to go put on some pants.

There's Blood Everywhere!!!

   Ok, all of the blood has been cleaned up as of this posting.  But, for a little while there, it looked like we were filming 'Carrie' in my bedroom.  Skeletor, who has been particularly cantankerous this past week, was having himself a good, old fashioned meltdown.  To emphasize some point (probably about how much I sucked or something; he was nonverbal at this point,) he slammed my bedroom door, knocking off my super awesome and not at all ironic 'Saved By The Bell' calendar.  Not only was this a tragedy due to damages inflicted on my priceless $17 calendar, but Skeletor then proceeded to run angrily back into my room, stomping directly on the tack that was used to hold up said awesome calendar.  Apparently, his tiny, little Flinstone feet are extremely vascular, because the wound (yes, I'm calling it a wound; it was that hardcore) just kept leaking blood all over the damn place.  To make matters worse, Skeletor not only refuses to be comforted when he gets a booboo, but he also has issues with his feet.  (I have to cut his toenails while he's sleeping.)  So, needless to say, he was not down with my trying to staunch the blood loss.  Or render any aid whatsoever.  It broke my heart, but I had to just sit near him, and watch him scratch at the cut until the bleeding finally stopped.  But, holy of holies, the pediatric developmental disorders gods (that totally exist) smiled on us!  He actually agreed to get into the bathtub and wash all the blood and germs off of his pissed off little body.  Hooray for small favors!  So, I guess my point is, no matter how bad it seems, it could always be worse.  Also, I have a kick-ass 'Saved By The Bell' calendar.  Next month is Dustin Diamond!

I Try Not To Think About It

     While I am typing this, there is a small tornado raging its way around my living room.  His name is Skeletor, and woe be to the objects/people that have the misfortune of landing in his path.  Normally when he gets into a "Skeletor SMAAAASH" mode, I kind of hover on the edge of the kill zone.  You know, to ensure that none of my valuables or other children get broken.  Tonight it's different, though.  This week has been a lot harder than usual.  Instead of a few meltdowns here and there, we have been at full-blown Chernobyl level all freaking week.  I'm sure it's because of the change in schedule with being off a week for spring break.  But, whatevers, point being is that he is straight up leveling the house, and I just don't think I can do it. 
     My heart hurts.  My head hurts.  I'm so angry and sad and frustrated and confused and just...impotent.  Completely useless.  Nothing that I do is going to comfort my child until he has run out of energy enough to fall on the ground.  At least once a day, bare minimum, I feel like the shittiest parent who ever had the audacity to breed.  I feel like his condition is my fault.  I shouldn't have gone to Iraq when he was so young.  I should have noticed something was wrong sooner when I got home.  I shouldn't have the family history of autism and psychosis and all that fun stuff (because I totally have control over that, right?)  And all of these thoughts are just the ones that I have when I actually allow myself to admit that parenting this small child is hard.  But, when I think about the future it feels like my entire body is shutting down from the fear.
     I try not to think about what Skeletor's life will be like as he gets older.  I just do the best I can by him on each particular day.  That's all I can do.  But, as his first appointment with the developmental disorders clinic approaches, I'm thinking about it more and more.  And it's terrifying.  What if he can't function in society?  What if he can't have a job or a girlfriend?  What if he never has a friend?  What if his meltdowns become more violent as he gets older...and bigger?  What if, what if, what if?  It's enough to make you vomit from anxiety.
     But, that's enough feeling sorry for myself, I reckon.  I guess I'm going to suck it up, and go be with my son until this has passed.  If it ever does.

Well Played, Captain Gingerbeard. Well played.

     This post was going to be about the many ways that my dear husband, Captain Gingerbeard, kicks ass at shamming.  Shamming is a military term (at least that's the only place that I've ever heard it) that basically means to do as little work as possible.  If you can also look like you are actually working while in the process of not working, then you have truly mastered the art of shamming.  And then you should be teaching classes on it to underprivileged kids or something.  Quit being selfish with your gifts, asshole.  God don't like ugly. 
     ANYWAY.  The Captain is just amazing at shamming.  He can find so many ways to get out of doing things, but he always has a semi-valid excuse.  Like, if he didn't have these excuses every single time, then you would totally believe him and let him off the hook.  But, it's every freaking time!  So, today, when I asked him pretty please with sugar on top to vacuum before he left for work, he had an excuse.  It took massive amounts of badgering on my part, but he finally quit thinking of reasons why he couldn't do it, and just did it.  Much like Nike.  The shoe company, not the god.  Or was it a goddess?  Oh, well, I don't care enough to Google it. 
     So, the guy vacuums like the peach that he is, but I still feel like I can be mad because I had to beg him to do it.  But, when I get up from taking a well-deserved nap (badgering is tiring,) he has also washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen!  And now, instead of him owing me, I have now promised him favors...!  How did this happen?!  Sneaky, sneaky Gingerbeard...

The Origins of Skeletor: My Child is Not Ted Bundy

     So, once upon a time, there was this girl who thought it would be a super amazeballs idea to join the army even though she was the mother of small kids.  I know, she's clearly deranged.  Anyways, her husband was also in the military and was quite supportive of the girl's aspirations.  Thusly, she went and kicked all kinds of ass at being in basic training and, pretty much, life in general.  When she got home from all her high speed medic training, she was almost immediately sent to New Jersey in the dead of winter to prepare for a tour in Iraq.  (Don't worry.  She didn't understand why she was mobilizing for the desert while in New Jersey, either.) 
     Cut to one year later.  The girl comes home from the desert.  She's kind of tan, a little skinnier, and there's sand in EVERYTHING.  She knows that things are going to be difficult with her children.  The army briefed her to death on it.  However, all those briefs didn't mean bupkiss until she was actually standing face to face with the blank, staring faces of her loving ambivalent kids.  Long story short, they quickly came around, and loved their mommy, and everything was peachy.  Except for the little one. 
     The little one, Skeletor, was just a wee, little baby when his mommy left.  He was about two and a half when she returned.  So, she attributed his complete lack of engagement with her to the fact that he just didn't remember who she was.  That's also what she blamed on his violent fits of rage.  She didn't think anything about his obsession with skeletons because, let's be real, skeletons and bones and such are awesome.  It wasn't until his daycare teacher pointed out he didn't know anyone in the class by name or ever play or talk to any of the other children, that the mommy admitted something was wrong.  They spent nearly two years bouncing around from one doctor to another until finally they found one who would listen.  Unfortunately, while he agreed with the probable diagnosis of autism, he also inadvertently aligned Skeletor with a serial killer.
     As Skeletor and his mother were leaving from their appointment with this child psychologist, the man warned our heroine that she must be very careful with her son around animals.  He said because Skeletor was so fascinated with bones, that it wouldn't be unusual for him to want to take them apart.  TAKE APART THE ANIMALS.  "Um, exsqueeze me?" said the girl.  "Isn't that how sociopaths start out?  Are you saying my son is a sociopath?  He's four!  Are you saying he's like Ted Bundy?  Is that what you're saying?  I mean I know he's handsome like Bundy, but that's where I draw the line in the comparison.  You're crazy!  And stupid!  You wanna fight?!"
     Luckily, that was the last time the girl and Skeletor ever saw that man.  They went to a doctor who was very understanding and did not liken Skeletor's obsessions to that of a serial killing monster's.  They are now just a few weeks away from their appointment at a Pediatric Developmental Disorder clinic.  Hopefully (and probably), nobody there will accuse Skeletor of such homicidal tendencies.  Or else, his mommy may have to cut somebody.

 

Greetings and Salutations!

    Well, hello, all of you people who are not reading this!  Fancy meeting you here!  Anyhoozle, I was recently made aware that all stay-at-home moms have blogs.  It's just what we do.  So, as I like to pretend that I am all hip and with it and whatnot, I am currently in the process (like right this second) of starting a blog.  Because people totes care what I think?  Maybe?  Probably not, but that's cool.
    As I said, I'm a stay-at-home mom.  SAHM's, I believe is what we're called.  I mean, once a month (or for entire years, which is less fun) I am also a combat medic in the National Guard.  Which I absolutely fluv!  (Fluv = effing love, by the by.  I sometimes make up my own language.  I apologize in advance.)  To clarify, I love the blood and guts and army-ish aspect of the Guard, not so much the leaving my family.  I am married to a super awesome man who, for the purposes of this blog, shall henceforth be referred to as Captain Gingerbeard.  He's just the cat's pajamas, and my bestie with testes!  I have provided maternal DNA to four beautiful kids, code names Smarty Pants (age 10,) Miss Priss (age 8,) Sassafrass (age 6,) and Skeletor (age 5.)  Skeletor (the only boy) was not given his name because he's "even more eviler than Skeletor," but because he is obsessed with skeletons and all things Halloween.  We are currently awaiting an appointment with the Pediatric Developmental Disorders clinic at Vanderbilt, which I'm told is very good.  The general consensus, thus far, is that he has some form of autism.  So, I'm sure we'll be talking about that, as well.
     One final thing before I go take my meds and get my cutie sleep, I have some mystery illness that could be Lupus/Lyme Disease/Fibromyalgia/Rheumatoid Arthritis/There's Nothing Wrong With You, but the final diagnosis has yet to be reached.  I call it my TICWeed (Terrible Intercontinental Wasting Disease.)  It used to be my Terrible Iraqi Wasting Disease, because it started while I was deployed, but as it followed me home, its name had to be tweaked.  So, there you go.  Me in a nutshell.  Did anyone else just think of that scene from Austin Powers?  No?  Just me?  Okay, then.