The Tale of the Little Black (& White) Dress

Once upon a time in the land of Queens there was a bodacious babe named Madmother. Now this bodacious babe was also a curvaceously booby babe, an aging Botticelli-style babe who was fully in touch with the reality of her bod.

This BB was turning the mixed-emotional milestone of the half ton... yes FIFTY! And as she had some dire knee-dom issues, had decided to hold an intimate gathering of those she adored to celebrate. After much sighing and sniffling she managed to cull her list of those nearest and dearest from 140 to 50 or so (earning the ire of many in the process), sent the invitations on steel chargers, and prepared to beautify her bodacious bod as much as her curvy, curtailed, current-state-getting-bloody-old figure would allow.

Now Madmother had a favourite shopping area. One that was realistic of price, splendid in choice, and realistic in the interpretation of real women. Or so she thought. Off she and Big Boy trotted the week before the BIG EVENT, all hyped up in anticipation and with great hopes.

They huffed and they puffed up to the first shop. Snooped and scooped, tugged and tried. The one dress sorta kinda what Madmother was looking for sorta kinda would not do up properly. Mind you, she did manage to snaffle a second version of her favourite maxi-dress in said shop, but her sadness and no obvious candidates for hot-damn dress of the year translated over to the lovely saleswoman. Said sales assistant piped up "What about our sister shop across the way there? They have more designer labels and the sort of thing you seem to seek!"

So with a giggle and a grin, Madmother and her trusty companion trotted over to the other retail outlet.

Now, I need to bring in some details here.

The dress she had tried and failed with was a sorta fitted designer dress in an Aussie size 16. By Joseph Ribkoff.

The dress she had bought the second one of was an Aussie size 14 - but a casual loose style. See where I'm going with this?


Madmother drooled at the gloriousness of the designer delicious designs. Grabbed one here, grabbed one there, grabbed many, many everywhere! Size 14, size 16, even a size 18!

And cried to see how NOTHING fitted. The size 16 would (again) not go near those bodacious boobs - a 10 cm gap at top of zip testified to that. The size 18 fitted over breasts, and swam over rest of body in a very good whale-like impersonation. The size 14 (and on the sale rack), did up, slid sensuously over hips, bum and tum, and then did a pastie like impression over front of chest, barely covering up nipples.

Madmother was devastated. She had dresses she COULD wear, but nothing that matched the image in her head of how seriously hot she needed to be to convince her nearest and dearest that broken knees and turning the half ton did not lesson her Madmotherishness, not her chutzpah!

She stamped her little foot (well, little compared to her bodacious bod) and turned her eye back to the sales rack near the door.

Where a little black and white dress by, you guessed it, Joseph Ribkoff hung tauntingly. Now, we know the size 16 was a hell NO over that bust in a size 16 at the beginning of this saga, and to make matters worse, this dress a sensuously swaying in the sea breeze was marked SIZE 10-12! Now, we know things can  be misleading in the sizing in today's world, but SAME DESIGNER? A minimum of TWO if not THREE SIZES SMALLER? You can guess the reaction of the snooty saleswoman (Oh sweetie, you'll rip the seams and be liable to pay for it) and the feeling-very-under-pressure-and-in-the-line-of-fire Big Boy (Don't worry, let's look elsewhere, we will find something...) to the request to try it on!

Now, this was the first dress in other shop Madmother tried on:

Lovely, isn't it?


This is the one she tried in the smaller size:

Ah, the great sizing dilemma... but who could have dreamt of such a difference?

Size does not matter? Pfft - size does matter when you are trying to buy clothes... And they wonder why I won't shop over the internet?

What about you? Do you have similar sizing scenarios?

 

So, Where The Bloggie Hell ARe YA?

Madmother turns 50!

 

 

Okay, so I have ventured back into the land of blog and am having a little WTF moment. Bloggers who were proficient and high profile have sunk below the surface, some have gone private, some have vanished completely AND some, like mine, are sitting untouched for months or years.

So, what happened to everyone? Where did you all go? And are you coming back?

 

 

Oh, and do you like my dress? Lol - I will tell you the tale of the size 10 dress in the next few days. What a farce!

 

 



I think I may be heading on back in...

Hello! How are you? Remember me? I used to be that woman who blogged and blabbed and babbled frequently. And I think... maybe I'm coming back.

Just recently I have begun to miss having my safe place, my haven of words. When I lost my mother three years ago (hell - is it really THREE years?) I also lost a lot of my voice. Words that flowed easily seemed clogged behind the huge lump of unspoken grief. My blog became somewhere the memories of Wise Woman jumped out at me, confronting and brash, a place where pain awaited whenever I ventured in. And so I rarely did. I have posted blog entries THREE times prior to this one in 2013. THREE. And this from a woman who wrote almost daily for years.

A lot has happened. I turned 50 last week. My sons are young adults, my husband is slowing down, the wheels of the world continue to grind on, turning, churning constantly.

Facebook has been an outlet to some degree. Sometimes I write pieces more suited to here and yet post them there. It is not faceless, and I must admit the need to be politically correct and play nice has me grinding my teeth at times. And the unspoken words I bite back almost choke me. The double standards and the two-faced nature of some make me want to scream "Charlatan! Do you not think I remember the heinous words you spewed forth about him/her/them and now you are kissing his/her/their feet with your false traitorous lips?"

Yeah, I really need to come back. Before my black and white stark sense of honour gets me in real trouble.

So, how are you all?

Hello?

Anybody out there?

World Autism Awareness Day 2013

Today, April 2nd, in fact EVERY April 2nd is World Autism Awareness Day. It is a day specifically set aside to educate, inform, share autism awareness.


The thing about having a child diagnosed with autism is beyond the grief, shock and disbelief, you get the "he/she will never" list. For this special day I thought I'd share you some of ours:

• "Shame it was not 20 years ago and you could place him in care and start afresh" Speech Therapist when he was 3. This was less of a "He will never" and more of a "He is so badly broken you may regret him..."

• "You are an overbearing, obsessive mother who cannot admit her son's shortcomings and is unduly scarring him in the process. He cannot learn." District Head for Special Needs for our area in a placement meeting when he was 6.

• "Why does my child have to put up with a special needs child in his class? It is a drain on resources we could use to push him higher." Parent to teacher, Grade 6. He was 12 and puberty had hit. Anxiety and meltdowns were occurring on a weekly basis. Weekly, not daily. AND we had funded an aide OURSELVES to help and to lessen any impact on the other children

• "No, we didn't put him in the Eduquest team because of his autism. He would not have coped." Grade 7 teacher who should have known better by then as he was achieving amazing things. As the principal of the school this competition was held at said to me a year later "You do realise he probably could have won?" ... yes, yes we do. We knew that at the time but you pick the battles you will win, and not the ones where ignorance will never be changed.

And then we come to the now. All those dark times where you wonder "Is it worth it?" "Is this making a difference?" "Are we doing right or are we putting him and us through all this stress for nothing?"... let me tell you in our case, and yes we wondered all of that many times, and other's words echoed consistently through our minds, it is a resounding "YES!"

This is what I posted on a Facebook group page earlier this week:

This is the boy who was told he could never learn, would never socialise, had an intellectual impairment, and whose sensory meltdowns were legendary and incindiary. This is the boy whose family always believed in him, treated Asperger Syndrome as differing abilities not a disability, who always set the bar higher so he could soar...

This is my now 15 year old performing a monologue in front of an audience of 60, a monologue he chose, directed, acted and blocked. This is my Super Aspie Boy:



My son. My amazing, compassionate, talented, confident just turned 15 in January son who has Asperger Syndrome.

Is it all worth it? You tell me.

World Autism Awareness Day april 2, 2013. Differing abilities, not disability.

A very, very proud and totally in AWE of her boys (cause her youngest rocks too)

A Valentine's Day Disaster - or Why We Won't Be Eating Here No More!

“We don’t get out much anymore” is the anthem of parents everywhere. Once children enter your life there never seems to be enough hours in the day and eating out goes to the bottom of the priority list. As the children grow you would think dining in restaurants could become a little easier, but it is then THEIR commitments which prevent such transpiring as you become the world’s busiest transport system for them and their mates.

Which is why, on the rare occasion you do manage to dine out, a bad experience magnifies into gigantic proportions. We had a restaurant, a favourite place to dine. One that served a choice of meals the children would happily devour - a very important requirement. One that also offered us a variety of culinary delights that made braving the night out more than worthwhile for the adults. Living in a small community we heard rumbles of discontent with the service, but figured, ‘Hey – you cannot please all of the people all of the time!’

Over the past twelve months this restaurant became THE place for us… you know; the birthday place, the anniversary place, the celebration place. Then IT happened. On one of the family nights three of the four of us dined as usual, with abandonment and sensory joy, whilst the fourth sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The head of our family, unable to eat with us as his order had been forgotten. Forty minutes after the rest of his family had satisfied their hunger, and only after we chased the waitress to ask the chef, his order arrived. ‘Okay’, we thought, ‘everyone is entitled to one stuff up’. 

It remained OUR place. The next time we were dining with another family. Laughter echoed around the table, wine flowed freely, conversation continued without falter… and my husband was forgotten once more. A little embarrassing when it was your suggestion of venue and you had talked the place up to the others. Again we waited, his meal finally arriving but by then the chatter had dried up somewhat and awkward pauses had infiltrated the scene.

Yet still we returned; until the 14th of February this year. We do not traditionally celebrate Valentine’s Day. Like many, we feel it is an over-commercialised American money-spinner, but this year, with one of the kids’ after school commitments ending at 7pm, we figured why not? Booked. Arrived. Ordered. Being a school night, and as one had a mass of homework awaiting his return, we opted for the quick choice on the menu, or so we thought. Pizzas. Not that difficult or time-consuming, right? Wrong. Entrees came, though mine was only lukewarm, not good with prawns; kids’ meals came. After quite a bit we asked the waitress how long the pizzas would be. It became very obvious they had not even been started as we watched her race to the kitchen, grab our order and run it out to the pizza chef. She returns to say they won’t be long. “How long?” I ask. “Five minutes.” she replies, “The oven is hot, it will be quick.”

Five minutes pass, then ten. I tell my husband to take the boys home to let the fifteen year old start on his homework, and I will ask for them as takeaway. He leaves, I move from the table to the front counter. And wait. Another five minutes goes by, the owner’s wife asks me what am I waiting for? “My pizzas”, I tell her. The waitress comes to the front, and I ask “Where are they?” She grabs the order which is still THREE BEHIND on the pizza bar, and tells the chef it is urgent. He mutters something about the others in front of us. She tells him we have been forgotten and should be first. At this point I tell them not to bother and that finally we have had enough and will not be returning. The chef then turns and grabs two plated pizzas and tells her to box these as I am saying we are never coming back. The waitress grabs them and telling him he cannot do this. They are not even what we ordered.

During this farce not once did we get an apology from the owners. The waitress yes, it was obvious she was mortified, the pizza chef/owner nor his wife did not appear to give a damn. As I said in the beginning of this article, once you become parents you become time poor. A restaurant is a customer service driven business, and it is an industry where many fail. No matter how good your food may be, total disdain for customers and the arrogance in believing you can treat people anyway you want and they will still be your customer is not only unacceptable, it is sheer stupidity. You will eventually fail.

As for us and our Valentine’s Day dinner? We came home, made tasty, home-cooked pizzas which we devoured whilst like any good, modern day writer I vented on Facebook. Then I sat back and read and read of other’s bad experiences at this same place. But this time I understood exactly why those rumbles had begun, and why they were turning into a roar.

ASD Awesomeness

I should have thought up a better title, I should have been writing of this earlier. Actually, no, I couldn't as today is the first of the performances and who knew where this would end?

My son, my oldest, my glorious 14 year old Aspie has one of the main roles in his youth theatre group's play.

My oldest son has seven performances in this very professional production. Today, tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow night, Monday, Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

SEVEN!

Did I mention his role really is one of the most important in the play?

He plays The Beast.

To top this off, starting Monday he has EIGHT exams - his finals for Grade 8.

Pressure? Hell yes, for any child. For one on the autism spectrum? Overwhelming for most.

But not for this boy.

I AM SO DAMN PROUD I COULD BURST!

He aced the first performance, and as we walked away when I picked him up two little girls were talking to the director and excitedly whisper "Is that The Beast? We liked him best."

I cannot wait to see him in action tonight, but even without having witnessed him in action yet I could not be on a greater high.

And he is self-assured and calm about his exams (which strangely is how he has been all year - stresses over assignments, relaxed and  confident in his intelligence and knowledge for exams... go figure) without a sign of anxiety.


This was undreamt of EVER!



 ~Refer early years posts~

Oh Dear Lord.

Today was meant to be a day spent with my partner in life, my husband.

The first day after the school holidays, the day school went back.

Dropped both boys, went and had brekky together, found message on mobile on return to the car (yes, I should have taken it with me).

Boy 1 frantically calling, trying to find one of us (Big Boy had left his mobile at home charging) to tell THERE WAS NO SCHOOL UNTIL TOMORROW!

Whoops, parenting fail. But hell, you know, every other school on the planet, including Boy 2's, WENT BACK TODAY!

So off we trot to humbly pick up our child. Our son, who thought it hilarious we had stuffed it so badly. Our son, who once upon a time, would have been in massive meltdown mode for hours because of this.

Our son, who came home, got changed, and happily came down the coast with us.

Where, in one of the shops, a lovely lady who meant no harm spoke of her teacher husband and dealing with these kids. You know, these autistic ones with PROBLEMS and ISSUES and as much as she meant NO HARM, it was really quite harmful to hear, and listen to her condescending words.


Ignorance still runs rampant in this world... Next time I just may comment about how lucky it is for someone like her not to have to worry about their level of intellect or any real challenges in her sweet little shop job.

Yeah, ignorance is not pretty to deal with.

Who Knew?

Knees, apparently, are essential in life. When knees refuse to perform their function all of a sudden the things you took for granted are gone. *Poof* vanished.

Walking becomes a major issue, climbing stairs an impossibility, gardening a dream from the past.

My knees have decided, very suddenly, to do this. We had been diving into the jungle we call our garden (though on 3 acres on the top of an extremely fertile mountain it is a little bigger and more overgrown than most), slashing, pulling and poisoning. My asthma was not happy at the lantana dancing, my body was creaking and moaning at the unexpected exertion.

Then one morning my left knee decided not to co-operate. My LEFT knee. Not my *twenty years of pain and problems but totally ignored because I am a tough bitch push on through the pain sorta wench* RIGHT knee. My good *hey let me take on the extra we'll be fine just let's get on with it* LEFT KNEE.

Which meant both knees were fucked.

So, off to my local, very tolerant GP me and my knees trotted (with dibber-dobber Big Boy shadowing closely). Like me, she suspected cartilage *time to do some basic clean-up work* damage, inconvenient but not too bad. Off to x-ray I go.

Results came back quickly.

Moderate osteo-arthritis in both, right worse than left, bone-on-bone you need TWO knee replacements within the next couple of years if we can pain manage and string it out that long result from hell.

The usual lose weight and exercise plan forcefully suggested (did you know that for each kilo you lose, four to five kilos of pressure is removed from your knees? I didn't), appointments with dietician, exercise physiologist and orthopedic surgeon put in place.

Rest for left knee to recover demanded.

I listened, for once. Well, sort of listened and capitulated to a degree.

Until Saturday all seemed to be getting better. We had a family playdate planned for that night, so being keen I kept my feet up most of the day.

And disaster struck. For some insane reason, when I went to arise to leave my RIGHT knee decided that twenty years and it was done. Could not put foot to floor without tears of agony. Honestly, it takes a lot to make me cry from physical pain, I have a truly high pain threshold (emotional stuff, well, Telstra ads can set me off) but this was off the richter scale.

So now the situation is as follows. Appointments are not until mid-October, the surgeon is mid-November. My GP is away for this week.

I cannot walk. Seriously.

Am taking my x-rays off to the physio this morning, if I can manage to hobble there.

I had no idea my 14 year old is so strong, and can nearly balance his mother with one hand. I did not dream that my 13 year old's shoulder was exactly the right height to allow him to be a human crutch. I did know that they love their Madmother very much and will do anything to help.

Both knees. Fucked.

Not happy Jan.

Bloody derby drops... something tells me they had more than a little to do with this. Who says exercise is healthy?

FYBF - The Early Hours

I have no idea what the theme will be for today's FYBF. I have no inkling of what I should be writing of. It is 4.30 in the morning and I am up insolently insomniacing again.




I do not suffer from this as frequently as I once did, or maybe it is a lull in my slackening sleep cycle... a minute respite in the big scheme of my life? But it does not matter, for here and now I am awake once more.

I am not here often nowadays. The driven need for the written word has left me; well, that and the fact that I am quite aware of the poisonous eyes who peruse these pages, yearning for a tainted titbit, a morsel of information they can take and twist, a last minute grasp of evil to be used before we leave the school by which we are connected.
 *Waves* Grins* Laughs at how powerless and small these amoeba women are*

My life and the joy in it must seriously frustrate the fuck out of those two.

Life moves on.

It is 4.30am.

My younger son, for all the turmoil of this year and the actions of those who should know better, aced his Year 7 NAPLAN. Seriously ACED. My older son is blossoming more and more, thriving in the hothouse nature of his small private high school, the nurturing, student-focused, positive atmosphere suiting him to a tee. And he has a lead role in the local drama group's play. My son with ASD has a LEAD ROLE IN A PROFESSIONAL PRODUCTION.

I still miss my mum.

Oh, and my body is aging faster than my paper years. Which is why I wrote this:

*Madmother Ode*

I went off to me doctor

To get me bits all right

She prodded and she poked

Those bits all outa sight

Made me go have pictures

Of inside and of out

Drained me of my blood stuff

(All Twilight fans be proud)

Then she sat me down hard

Solemn and so glum

Told me I was broken

And need to stop me fun

Revealed my knees are dodgy

Some new ones needed soon

And no more derby dancing…

Well, that threw me into gloom

She hauled me off my grog too

Many, many months ago

But whilst my liver smiles more

There’s still a way to go

But I ain’t some little fairy

Not delicate and such

Not gonna go so quietly

It’s time to make a fuss

So, knees just suck it up loves

And liver, you’ll be fine

And if the pain is too much

I’ll just increase the wine!

~Copyright Madmother~

Apologies to those who already read it on FB.

Enough of the drivel. It is now nearly 5am and I am waiting for the sun to rise. We need to order water. We need to go to work. We need to ready the boys for the last day of the second last term of the year.

That is all folks. Toodles!

A Rehash: Rose-Coloured Glasses in the ASD World.

Many, many moons back (even more moons than months due to the blue moon last night) I entered a competition on another blog. You may remember from my reference to it in this post.

Since then I have been asked by a number of people to post my actual entry on here. It was a limit of 250 words, and the requirement was to tell your story of rose-coloured glasses... do you or don't you wear them?

This was my tale:

I have a pair of rose-coloured glasses. When they said “your son has autism, he will never socialise or have friends, you need to consider the options” I put on my rose-coloured glasses and told them “Pfft, what do you know?” As he made friends and proved them wrong, my glasses turned a deeper hue of blushing pink. When the educational professionals stated, “You are an obsessive mother who cannot accept your son’s shortcomings and thus will unduly scar him” I grabbed my hot pink glasses and enrolled him in a mainstream class. I knew in my heart of hearts he did NOT have an intellectual impairment and my glasses tinted the darkness of their words into softer hues of manageable pain. When he excelled at school and grew into this unique, confident, happy young man, open and proud of being on the autism spectrum… the glasses glowed in magenta-tinted splendiferous pride. I am going to wear them right to the end of my pessimistic life. Did I not mention the pessimism bit before? Well I am a glass half-empty sort of person, but my rose-coloured glasses thrust me blushingly into an optimistic world. A world called motherhood.

I won.

And my glasses continue to shine brightly with the reflected magnificence of my incredible son.

Mine... No Mine! No - MINE!

Sometimes it feels like this journey on the autism rollercoaster is like a pissing contest. You know, whose story is the worst, or who does it right, or what therapy works, or what boxes does your child fit into?

Copyright Madmother

And I am just as guilty as the rest of them. It is hard to remember at times that everyone's experiences and more importantly, everyone's children are unique. Individual. What issues they or you face, whilst similar to ours, will not be identical. What quirks their or your child have may sound the same, but will not be.

At this time in Boy 1's and our lives we are gifted with some wonderful advantages: clarity and hindsight, but this does not give us the right to dictate to others. Our path, our strategies, our philosophy, is just that. OURS. And whilst it may have worked for our son, it does not mean it will work for anyone/everyone else's.

Experience is a wonderful thing, and it is a joy for us to be able to mentor and support other parents who follow behind, but we also need to allow them to choose what works for them. They will blaze their own trails.

I had a lovely morning with some other parents this morning, and whilst I admit, I find it hard to relate nowadays (and I am sure the reverse is same for them - they cannot see where we are from the point they are at), it was really nice to discuss our differing ideas.

I have a hell of a lot of knowledge stored in this befuddled brain, and am always very happy to share and offer advice (okay - I do talk a lot, lol) and the solutions that worked for us, but from now on I am going to add a disclaimer...

WARNING: Whilst the following produced the stated result in our son, feel free to disregard if it ain't for you.

YOUR CHILD, YOUR PATH, YOUR WAY.

Pappa Gio and The Pizza Capers... mUSE wARS rEVIVAL eDITION - # 2

Part I: The present.
Her face pressed hard against the warm window of the pizza place as the flow of saliva flooded her mouth with a gush. Sal glanced around, sure everyone passing could see the river of drool as it swept past her glands. A gloved hand quickly wiped the imagined overflow from her chin, but as she glanced down to the pristine white there was no trace of moisture. Not a drop nor a mark.

Pizza was her weakness, the one food she classed as pure comfort. Sal felt it linked back to her Grandpa Sol and their favourite story, Gio's Pizza. It was tradition in the Jones household to read it every night the grandchildren came to stay. As one of fourteen, and the only one of the grandchildren to live with Grandpa Sol and Grandma Jo, it meant Sal heard the story at least twice a week for many of her formative years. Grandpa Sol even looked like Gio Fabrizza.

One of the many, hers was merely a face in the crowd of children of their children. But whilst the story was shared amongst the fourteen of them, the recipe at the back and the special nights cooking pizza in the old timber-burning oven were her's and Sol's alone. A treat only they shared, a special bond. Private. Those were the nights Grandma Jo was at her prayer meeting, and if she ever wondered about the lingering odour of oregano, cheese and garlic it was never mentioned. Not once in the eight years Sal lived in their home.

Pizza remained her solace today but her widening waistline and shrinking wallet meant it was a rare indulgence. Something to be enjoyed only on the scarce special occasion when a celebration was warranted. Sal hadn't had pizza in over a year.

She allowed herself one last lingering look before turning away, forcing the urges back, dampening the craving down. Fighting her need. She walked away, a solitary, slouched figure lost in memories. 

Part II: The past.
She crammed the last glorious piece of pizza into her already overfilled mouth. The smell saturated her senses, the taste provoked orgasms of pleasure all through her body, but all the while the protesting crackle of flames reminded her she needed to leave before it was too late. She slowly licked the grease from her fingers.

Sal allowed herself one last lingering glance around what was her home. The place she had visited as a child with her mother, the house she was welcomed into after her mother's suicide, the rooms that had witnessed the pizza nights, her special nights with Grandpa Sol.

"His pizzas are fantastic

There's none that can compare

If you have the luck to try one

You'll never want to share!"

Sal was sick of sharing. So tired of the others crowding her, coming and going as they pleased, only staying for a little, enough to disrupt her life, then heading on back to their mothers and fathers and nice, cosy, safe lives. 

Her special nights with Sol had lost their lustre. Appeal had shrunk as she hit her teenage years and puberty beckoned. Needs changed.

Sal wiped her greasy fingers on Grandma Jo's apron before picking up her backpack. It was sad to think all her worldly goods fitted snugly into the one bag, fourteen years of life crammed into the canvas covers.

The flames began to crackle louder as if protesting her departure, alone in their complaint. Not another sound nor argument heard.

The roar of the fire prompted her to say her farewells. "Night Grandpa Sol, night Grandma Jo."

No more special pizza nights with Grandpa Sol, this was the last.    
Sal stepped over the bloody bodies of her grandparents, glancing down at Grandpa Sol's favourite pizza knife still embedded in his back.  No more was she his special girl, no more would he lovingly caress her as he had whilst they waited for the pizza to cook. Never again would he murmer she was his sexy little secret girl.     She hadn't heard those words for a while now.  
She had sensed Grandpa Sol's revulsion when he looked at her naked, her budding breasts, her developing curves. He was going to leave her even though he had promised not to. He had promised many things over the years, none he had delivered.

As she pulled the door shut the sounds of burning quietened. Sal walked away without a backward glance, not even as the house erupted in flaming splendour.

The What If's... FYBF Our Story

Firstly, a disclaimer. I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, paediatrician, doctor, speech therapist, occupational therapist or any other type of specialist. What I AM is a mother of a son on the autism spectrum, which in my opinion, makes me a little of all of the above.

My oldest son is fourteen years of age. He stands five foot eleven inches, tall, slender, and to be totally unbiased, drop dead gorgeous. He is in his first year of high school (Grade 8 here in The Queen's own land). His smile could break a million hearts, his laughter warm a million more.

My son. My beautiful son. My wonderful amazing straight A, acing school, report card written in such glowing terms you need sunglasses to read it, son.

My son who has Asperger Syndrome.

He was three when we began this journey. Three. He was five turning six when we began to formalise it. Back ten years ago there was no financial aide, little support and not much information. Early intervention was a mix of public and private chaos. We were lucky, we muddled our way onto the very path that is recommended for all littlies on the spectrum today. Speech therapy, physiotherapy, occupational therapy, psychologist, social skills group... somehow in  the confusion we got it right.

Which leads me to the point of today's post.

Intellectual impairment and autism.

My son was assessed using all the modern diagnostic tools, I could use all the lovely letters here but they may not mean much to a lot of you. Things such as CARS, WISPII, DSM IV.

But the actual results do not stick in my mind, what is frozen there was the psychologist's words.

Moderate Intellectual Impairment.

My son. My baby. My beautiful boy. I cried that day. And probably the day after too. It is all a little foggy now.

What I didn't know then is that the IQ testing part is notoriously inaccurate in results when testing CHILDREN ON THE AUTISM SPECTRUM.

What I didn't know was that these amazing kids do not test well at all, and their ability is often recorded far lower than it actually is.

What I did realise within 48 hours was whilst testing was well and good, he was still MY son, the exact same child as before diagnosis, before testing, before this specialist's words.

My son.

Whom nobody knew as well as I, his mother did. And in my heart there was no doubt that he DID NOT HAVE AN II.

Over the next few years many people, teachers, specialists, parents treated me with sympathy as they decided I was delusional or in denial. I even had one senior special needs educator (they brought in the BIG guns to deal with me) tell me I was "unduly scaring my child with my inability to recognise his shortcomings"... yeah, that one I can quote word for word nearly a decade later. 

Poor, poor woman. Silly, delusional Madmother.

The crazy woman.

The mother who knew, loved and accepted her child whilst still believing in him. The mother who fought tooth and nail for his rights, for who she KNEW in her heart, he was, for the man she knew he could be.

For the young man he is today.

I guess my point is this. For those of you on the start of this journey, believe in yourself. Trust your instincts as a parent, have the guts to stick to what YOU know your child to be no matter what the so-called experts say.

Boy 1 Grade 7 Graduation 2011

It is worth it. It is beyond worth it, it is incredible, amazing, heart-filling, bursting with pride, jaw-droppingly WOW!

When Friendship Dies

I had a friend. A really close friend. Someone I trusted, spoke to daily, supported as she supported me. Then the THING happened. You know, the THING that seems to be oh so common? The chill. You know something has changed but have no idea why? You start to second guess every recent discussion, every chat, every joke, every little thing, searching, trying to work out what YOU did wrong.

And eventually you realise. It is not YOU, it is her, and no matter how much that friendship mattered at the time, you have to walk away and let it go.

As I always tell my children, you cannot control the actions of another, merely your own actions and reactions.

I was over at Maxabella's yesterday, and read her post on the death of a friendship. Then I read the comments and realised just how common this sort of thing is between women. It helps to know others go through the same thing, it helps not to be alone.

I wonder if they ended up in such a toxic situation as mine became, the constant lies, trouble-making, victim mentality attacks. The stalking (for it can be called no other), the isolation as I refused to enter into a he said/she said battle with mutual friends. The trouble it caused for my children, especially my youngest, when her poison spread to our school. The relief when the focus turned to others and finally so many saw her for what she really is. And finally, the letting go of all her crap, and the acceptance that it was never about me, it was always about her (and THAT took a long time, believe me).

It is sad that women seem to think it is acceptable to attack one another, or to act foolishly and vindictively. High School Mentality (HSM) is a curse that some seem to never outgrow.

And for all that I have been accused of being confrontational over the years, I'd rather be seen as straight-talking, no bullshit woman than as a back stabber and immature bitch.

Ladies - be kind to one another, you never know what is happening behind closed doors. Friendships change and evolve, have the guts to say you have changed or grown apart and keep a semblance of civility, eh?

Surely we are all mature enough for that at least...

Muse Wars - The Remix - Part 2

Yes, once again Lori has posted Muse Wars.

As soon as I set my eyes on this photo I knew the temptation was too great - I had to post my Blog This winning entry from many moons ago. THIS one.

I think I will be back to post a new entry, I hope I will anyway... but this month is crammed full of social committments so I will make no promises.

But you should join in. Go on, have a go!

 

Oh, and please, do comment. It is pretty disappointing when the traffic is high but the comments are low. Especially when it is others who have joined in and that I always comment on myself. M'kay?

 

mUSE wARS rEVIVAL eDITION # 1 - The Watcher

He sat, hidden deep within the undergrowth. Not a breath nor hint of movement to give him away. Waiting, watching.

He knew she would be back. He was patient. It did not matter how long she took, or how cold it was, he would wait. She was worth it. Patience is a virtue his mother always said. She also said he was not as useless as he looked, or as stupid as he appeared. Her last words to him were along the lines of manning up and growing some balls. He wished she could see him now. She would have to eat those words if she could see him now.

The quiet made his head hurt, but it was better than the voices jabbering in his ear as they sometimes did. Quiet could be good, it helped him focus, leave the doubts of his duty, nay worthiness, behind. Away. Not here. Not now.

He allowed himself a moment to look around. The ruins suited this task, were appropriate for the job at hand. Old, deserted, desecrated, forlorn. Forgotten. Forsaken. And isolated. No random passersby, no unexpected witnesses to interfere in the operation. No messiness to clean up or unintended victims to remove. Messiness was terribly unpleasant.

The evening breeze briefly rustled the trees around him, lingering slightly to tease his short hair and brush the leaves across his face in a brief caress. He tentatively stretched his legs, careful not to breach his cover but aware that circulation must be maintained for swift movement the moment it was required.

A noise brought his attention back to the broken walls, something new, something not belonging. Her. He froze, hidden deep within the leafy green, invisible.

She swiftly entered his line of vision, caution forgotten as she seemed to assume this place was safe. Isolated, forgotten, a secret site not known to others. A haven from the outside world. A haven that had been breached, though she was blissfully unaware of the intruder. She dropped the limp satchel from her shoulder, sighed, stretched, pushing her perfect breasts taught against the tight shirt she wore.

He watched, relishing the display. Crouching, still, silent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His moment. The voices awoke breaking the solitude, intruding on this, his moment. He hated the voices, the conflict they aroused...

"Move in, get her."
"Hold, be patient."
"Don't let her get away."
"Go, go GO!"

Unaware, she bent and picked the fragrant stalks, humming some pretty tune under her breath, she tucked them into her bag. Slowly, methodically, the bag filled. Slowly, tantalisingly, she came closer and closer to his hiding place, her bag now overflowing with the perfumed plants.

"GO,GO, GO!"

He leapt from the bushes, grabbing, twisting her arms to hold, to lock her within his steely embrace.

Her scream echoed uselessly around the ruins. This place had been chosen with care, there was no help, there was no hope. Her voice quietened, then died.

The voices were here.

"Jacqui Tremont you are under arrest for the cultivation and sale of marijuana. You do not have to say anything, but anything you say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law..."

Muse Wars - The Remix - Part 1

Once upon a time there were three little girls who went to the police academy... whoops, sorry. Channelling Charlie's Angels for a minute there.

But once upon a time there were a group of bloggers who participated in a linky of short story posts. Created by Melissa, it was coined "Muse Wars" by moi, yes Madmother copyright peoples, and after 7 or 8 runs it fizzled into the either. Attempted revivals by MM failed a couple of times and then at a blog conference a discussion with the lovely Lori of RRSAHM has resulted in another run.

The gist is this:

* See photo

* Write story (up to 1000 words)

* Linke before it closes on July 27th.

Not sure if Lori is going to continue with the old routine of first to link gets to post and host next photo/linky?

Photo for revival Muse Wars #1:

Will post this then add linky in later for those who wish to join.

Happy writing!

A Funny Thing Happened to Me on The ASD Ride...

A woman walks into a supermarket.

Bumps into a woman who had cared for her child in a Long Day Care Centre many moons back. Woman asks, "So, how is Boy 1 doing?"

The first woman says "Excellent, doing wonderfully well at High School (this was before reports released and she learnt just HOW wonderfully well said child was doing), and has submitted a childrens' book to Penguin."

Second woman beams, and replies "I always knew he would do incredible things, he just had that aura about him."

They part, first woman walks off with husband who looks bemused and asks, "Did she?"

Woman one giggles quietly, looks around and states, "Oh, I'm sure she did. Which is why she isolated him, berated him and generally made him feel boxed in. And why I requested politely to the Director that she was removed from contact with him, or changed her tune quick smart. Shame she left so suddenly."

This was the person my little boy had nightmares about. The one the then four year old told me had "shoved me in a box Mummy, but I didn't fit. So she kept pushing me in until she could shut the lid."

How they forget. But mothers have a long memory, especially mothers who have had to fight tooth and nail for things that NEVER should have to be fought for.

Don't think I will be sending her that signed first edition. Don't think so at all.

The Highs and Lows of High School

I sometimes wonder if I am living in blissful ignorance, oblivious to the realities. Or maybe denial, not admitting to myself or anybody else the dread of what lies ahead.
I don't think I am, but our life seems so far removed from so many we have travelled on this rollercoaster with, you have to consider the fact it may be the calm before the storm.

We are awaiting his first report card for high school. The result of two terms/one semester in his new environment. A time full of change and challenges, anxiety, tears and angst.

He is still fairly socially isolated, but like the echidna that rolls itself into a prickly ball at first sign of attack, slowly but surely he is unfolding, opening, showing glimpses of his true self to others.

The anxiety has lessened, the tears have slowed, the hormones settled (a little).

Exam week was tolerable, made harder by the illness of myself and Boy 2. Pumping immune boosters and probiotics, we prayed he would fight off any lurgies until it was over. He made it by a hair's breath, going down like a ton of bricks on Saturday night, still ill three days on. Last week of school. No biggie if he misses now.
The social limits of school have been abaited by his two wonderful best mates. Last Friday he had a sleepover at his former school mate's house (to avoid the primary school disco), and even with no TV (it blew up THAT afternoon), he had fun.

The prior long weekend his oldest bestie, my honorary third son, was up for two nights. Watching those two is a balm to any worried mother's soul. Just so very, very solid. Boosted him for the week after, the exam pressures, the personal expectations he has for himself. That lack of belief in his work and ability even though he is a good student who loves learning. Okay, not confident, but okay.

Boy 2, Boy 1, C

Happy 80% of the time, what mother of a teenager, let alone one on the spectrum, could ask for more?
Am I in denial? Am I really basking in blissful ignorance?
I hope not. I do not think I am for many around are in awe of him. I pray we are not missing something vital, letting the ball drop after so many goals.

I can only sit and wait and be alert, vigilant, aware of the risks, challenges, pitfalls.

And love and support him unconditionally. The way I always have.

Eden's Fresh Horses Brigade - Who The Fuck Am I?

I am the party animal who can no longer party.

I am the writer who can no longer write.

I am the derby girl who can no longer skate.

I am the debator who can no longer argue.

I am the blogger who no longer blogs.

I am the motherless and fatherless daughter.

BUT

I am the mother who will mother until she draws her final breath.

This sums up a lot of who I am and how I think. At least for my firstborn.

So, who are you?