April 2nd 2012 - World Autism Awareness Day

Today is Monday the 2nd of April 2012. It is World Autism Awareness Day and part of Autism Awareness Month.

I sit here struggling to decide what post of mine to add to the link. What powerful part of our story would be the best bit to add to raise awareness of such a major part of our lives? The Road Less Travelled posts which detail our journey through to a couple of years ago? The Hope posts, which describe the incredibly powerful young man he has become today? The myriad of other posts with the massive highs, the bottomless lows, the fears, the dreams, the days of gripping on for dear life on the autism rollercoaster as it soars and dips?

Boy 1 & Boy 2 2011

So many stories, so many years. But I cannot decide, for deep in my gut there is a knot of anguish so deep it festers hidden.

And this is the story which must be told today.

My mobile phone rang as the cab crossed the bridge, heading into Melbourne. Sitting, laughing with my friend, I glanced at the screen. The school, oh fuck, it is the school. The one rare time I get away... the school. I answer, already in my heart knowing. "I'm sorry to ring, but we have a situation here," my child's teacher shakingly tells me, "He is standing in the rain threatening to kill himself."

Boy 1 & Boy 2 Sept 2011

Oh God, I knew it, I knew I shouldn't have been selfish enough to come.

Boy 1 was formally diagnosed with PDD-NOS under the umbrella of an Autism Spectrum Disorder at age 6. The paed had unofficially told us at age 4, but in the days of over a decade ago funding was not involved, age cut offs were not a concern, official paperwork was not needed until Grade 1. There was no assistance.This was the period of the meltdowns, the obsessions, all the glaring running riot signs, the restricted life, the childhood depression; oh God, THE MELTDOWNS... controlled our lives.

The Boy 1 of younger years. Now in this turmoil of a life lived another boy, Boy 2. A child of amazing beauty, strength, laughter, intelligence (well, really a lot like his brother, but without the complications of being on the spectrum). A child who, at age not quite 3 would circle his brother as he lay screaming on the floor "I want to be dead!" and gleefully join their mother in sniffing and uttering "Ooh - he's starting to smell! The worms are coming... better chuck him onto the compost before the rot really sets in" until said child screaming would giggle and twitch and forget the blackness and surface back into the light.

Boy 2 2003

This was the child, around the same period, who nappy on bum, dummy in mouth, walked up to the older bully in the playground who had just pushed his OLDER brother who was now in tears, shoved the much older, bigger him and told him in no uncertain glaring terms, "You leave my brudder alone or else!"

This is the child who was punished for refusing to leave his Grade 2 midst of major meltdown brother in the unattended forest area of the school. Yes. PUNISHED. For being a loving, loyal brother and doing THEIR FUCKING jobs for them!

Don't worry, we soon corrected it... but how do you undo being told you are naughty, and wrong when you are 6 years old and just trying desperately to help your sibling? No matter what they say later?

I watched this special on A Current Affair a few weeks back. The sister of twin boys on the spectrum spoke of her life. I cried bucketloads for her. And then, on my return from Melbourne "The Black Balloon" was on. The torrential downpour of tears increased hundredfold. The siblings, oh dear Lord, won't someone think of the siblings?



The teacher continued to babble away. He had threatened his best friend too, something along the lines of punching his head in. They needed him to be collected, but what the fuck was I going to do from Melbourne?

He had struggled as he grew older, social niceties were lost, the pressure of his life moulding him into a new, insecure, angry boy. A teacher bullying him, punishing him for not being her accepted norm, the loss of friends as they moved, and then the final straw that changed him completely, the loss of his beloved Nanna, Wise Woman.

He broke. We thought we would lose him. The school stuffed up time and time again (not the teachers, but the system and the disgustingly incompetent passive-aggressive bitch of a barbie-doll principal). Friends dumped him in droves. Little boys don't know how to deal with threats of self-harm.

And of the two that had stuck to him like glue, and supported him when he was slipping under, well, one of them had just had his head threatened to be punched in...

I hung up, looked to my friend, shook my head, and rang my husband.

"You need to pick up Boy 2. He has had a major episode, get there fast." With little explanation I knew he would leap to it. But I wasn't there. My baby needed me and I wasn't THERE.

The siblings. Autism Awareness. The brothers and sisters shunted to the side again and again and again. Not deliberately, but choices have to be made, and when you are dealing with some major emotionally and physically straining meltdowns the drawing little Johnny is trying to show you gets lost as you scream "NOT NOW DARLING!" whilst holding flailing arms and punching fists and kicking legs.

Not. Now. Darling.

My older child has Asperger Syndrome. He is doing well, really, really well. My younger child has a brother with Asperger Syndrome.

He is not doing so well.

World Autism Awareness Day 2012.

Please, add your chosen link below.

Weekend Grateful: Are we, yes?

To be honest I was tempted to link up my FYBF post from Friday, as in reality it sums up one of my big reasons to be grateful one, two, three.

But then in fear of the wrath of Maxabella, and knowing there is more to it, I decided to post a separate Weekend Grateful.

I have much to be grateful for in my life, and the more I look around at what others face, the more I realise just how much. Think I'll take a leaf out of Ms Maxi's book and make a list for you all to sit and go "Awwwwww" at, m'kay?



Melbourne Cup 2011

1. I have a wonderful husband, Big Boy. Many around us are going through hard times in their relationships for many reasons, many a night we sit on our lounge and ponder. I guess one of the main things we talk about is how very lucky we are to have each other and to agree on so much. Don't get me wrong, we are not perfect and we argue, and there are times I want to bury him in the lime pit under the avocado tree... oh, did I say that out loud? Whoops. Okay, we are human but when it comes to the big stuff we are two peas in a pod.  You can vomit now. 



Madmother house 2011

2. We live in a beautiful part of the world, in a lovely home, hidden away from the world at large. And we are lucky enough to own our property in these times of financial hardship. Alright, the bank shares in owning it but you get what I mean.

Boys Sept 2011

3. Kids. Our kids. What can I say? They are intelligent, handsome, quirky, unique, frustrating, boundary-pushing, wonderful boys. We have the most amazing conversations, and when I say they make my brain hurt I am not kidding! Surely I didn't do this to my parents? I didn't query the world and question the big things? Did I? Oh. That's right. I did. Payback is a bitch.

Me and one of my besties 2011

4. Our friends. So very, very many incredible, loyal, fun, special people in our life. In fact, so many that we never seem to have enough time to be with them! And the circle is growing and growing as we get to know their friends and the friends of friends!

Party time

Home - right here, right now!

5. Life opportunities. One door closes, another opens. Life is change and change is good. Most of the time. Says a woman who hates change. Meh.

I could keep going but I'm not going to. Instead I am going to go cook bacon and eggs for my three fantastic boys, after which we are tackling the Dr Who Board game before going outside to garden and have some fun.

Toodles!

What are you Grateful for? Go, join in the fun... it is good to sit and look at the good in your life sometimes.

I want to be just like Dad...

Happy Fathers Day 2011!

Farewell to a Very Special Lady.

My Aunt passed away last night. Again my cousin had the job of ringing me distraught, her words "Well it's official, I am an orphan" were not necessary as the sound of her sobbing made the reason for the call very clear.

May 2010 - Uncle Darleigh's Funeral

My Aunt and Uncle had played a very strong role in my life. In the past I wrote of my Uncle's fight with cancer, and then our loss of this wonderful man. But I do not think I have written of them. i can only do so briefly now, for the pain is fresh and raw.

I was Dad's Boy. The tomboy substitute for a son. As such I accompanied Dad on lots of blokey adventures, a lot of them at my Aunt and Uncle's farm. I grew up spending many days rambling and running around like a wild child over fields and in forests at their place. Wise Woman had dragged my Grumblebum Dad off the land into town when they married, and my Aunty Nancy and Uncle Darleigh took over the huge acreage atop the brother in the middle mountain. A dairy farmer's life was not easy, and whilst my Uncle worked the incredibly long hours, my Aunt taught at the local primary school. It was my Aunt's job which paid for so much over the years; the new irrigation system, the automation of the dairy, the enclosed tractor to help my cousin with his allergies.

She was the strength behind the man. She was an intelligent, articulate, straight-talking woman. When my sister died she refused to let us have Christmas alone and every year for quite a few she organised a wonderful extended family day.
She danced at my wedding, cried at my father's funeral, rejoiced in the birth of my boys.When my oldest was diagnosed on the spectrum she was there supporting us with every ounce of her teacher and loving aunt self.
 So big-hearted was this wonderful lady, not only did she raise my two adopted cousins, but she also took on my other Aunt's two boys when their mother passed away from cancer. Family. It was always all about family. Be it by blood or marriage or love, we were all so very important to her and she to us.


Now I wait for my cousin to ring me with details so I can once again organise to go home for a farewell. Aunty Nancy, I will miss you more than words can say.

Another Wise Woman has left this realm, she will be sorely missed by all who knew her.

The Family Style

I write. I love to write. I have loved to write since I was a child.

Now both my children write. Both my children write well.

Now, why would this be surprising, you ask? Well, for my oldest writing has not come easily. The incredible imagination and inspiration was always there but getting those words out in a harmonious fashion has been a long haul.

His speech therapy from age four consisted of lots of rhyming and poetry. And when I say lots, I mean one or two or three or even five rhymes a day. Created by us (as in he and I, but mainly he because it was no use me doing it, no help to him), until he was capable of creating by him. His therapist compared it to repairing a train track to comprehension and articulation, one that was damaged. You can see by his poem written at age seven that the track is pretty damn good now.

The next issue was writing. Hand writing. Due to his low muscle tone, and his obsession with perfection writing was a huge issue. Oh, and add in a preschool teacher who had told him he could not do it... hey presto! Instant meltdowns.

The wonderful former Principal and his grade one teachers started the slow journey to get past that one. And he did. By around grade five.

But in the past year or so, with the help of now utilising a laptop, his creative writing has blossomed. Incredibly. He now is so very articulate and talented that I no longer sit, brainstorm, push. I do not have to make him read his writing out loud to feel the rhythm of the words, he does this on his own. I do not have to tell him to not repeat and repeat the same phrases or words (yes, you can have echolalia in the written word), he knows not to by himself.  Now I read and go wow. And tell him to punctuate (in the excitement of a story spilling out this is his only sometimes forgotten rule).

My oldest has written a children's book for others on the autism spectrum. Simple, effective, positive and heartfelt. My oldest CAN write, by hell he CAN write.

My youngest. Well, when I was in primary school my parents were told by my teachers throughout, "MM is a truly gifted writer, you should be very proud and encourage this gift."
This fell by the wayside with High School and Uni (an economice degree? How the frig did I fall into that abyss?"), and the many awards rotted away in my cubby house.

I still have some of my pieces. My youngest leaves my supposed talent for dead. He hooks you in within the first second, and then the story sweeps you away into another realm. His style is polished, captivating, incredible.

For him it is in his blood. Never has he faced the demons my oldest has, it all was there, bubbling away, waiting to burst forth. His writing is amazing. We too brainstorm, but as equals. And I have learnt not to question why, as he always has a reason for taking a certain path. Mind you, it took me constantly being proved wrong in my doubt before I realised I needed to walk away and allow the brilliance to shine. The only small input I get now is again the punctuation reminder, though usually the response from Boy 2 is "Mu-um. It is only the rough draft!"

So, here we are. Three writers. And one amused Big Boy ("No way on earth did my genes have anything to do with this creative side they have!"). I wonder if the teachers truly believe the work is all theirs, because I must admit our writing style and rhythm, whilst different, is similar too. I can see how unique each is, but also note the close parallels. With Boy 1 it is understandable. The years of working together, of brainstorming, of reading, suggesting, helping when he was younger and the information did not flow fluently... of course you would expect my influence to have rubbed off. But all the teachers really need to do is look at the content, because those two boy brains come up with things I could not even dream of!

Boy 2, well whilst the effort was different I still was involved in the very young years. Our weekly sessions of bedtime storytelling where we each had seven nights to weave a verbal spell over the others would have influenced his thoughts on the way a story flows. And I... ah, whom I kidding. Boy 2 - it's genetic, but he is the improved version!

And they wonder why I call them the Augusten Burroughs and John Elder Robison of the next generation...

A Post About Poop.

Our lives revolve around poop at the moment. I guess my life has always revolved around poop.

My childhood was spent listening to my father, the aptly named Grumblebum, complain about his bowel habits. Every day he would dose himself up on salts (for those of you who don't know, salts are this old-fashioned remedy for chronic constipation. Downside - you poo like wee and as it runs out it scours you) and then we would get the running commentary of, "Well, I only managed a little bit. Something is wrong, I just know it."  ALL DAY. Until the next morning and the next dose of salts.

My Grandmother, Yee-Haw Grandma, was fond of conning us kids with the old Laxettes. You know, looks like chocolate, tastes like shit. Still around today, apparently. Wonder if they managed to fix the off-putting so not chocolate no matter what it looks like flavour? Certainly not going to test it myself! Luckily, I never suffered the fall out of the Granny sabotage. Wise Woman put a very quick halt to any attempts after my sister, the Flame-Haired Hellion, suffered the embarrassment of pooing her pants in kindergarten thanks to the yucky chocolate being slipped to her.

Wise Woman herself was even guilty of some poo pushing punishments. I was so young and cannot remember clearly if it was for being naughty or for being packed to the personal perimeter with poo, but the good old paraffin oil was Wise Woman's weapon of choice. {{UGH}}

Sadly, she suffered the indignity of an unresponsive bowel as she grew older. In her last years she had to resort to laxatives herslef, in the form of Movicol, due to the shrinking of her body squashing that poor bowel down until it was quite unable to perform its function.

I was always a strange pooper myself. Twice a week was not unusual, though with irritable bowel thrown in I would have a very painful but effective clean out every few weeks if stressed, or I ate the wrong food and triggered it.

So, when Boy 2 became ill recently, the first thing asked was "When did you last poo?" I don't have babies any longer. My children are eleven and thirteen, so having your mother enquire about your bowel habits is kinda embarrassing and yucky. Even worse when you have to confess, "Over a week ago..."

You can well imagine my reaction to that. He has always been like me, once maybe twice a week. I never really worried as it was the same as my childhood bowel habits, without the IBD. Boy 1 is every-night-same-time boy, just like his dad, Big Boy. So I figured, "well one had to be like me..."

But OVER A WEEK! Can you imagine the backlog in that small body? Let's just say my response was enough to scare the shit outa him. He now poops every second day. Gradually the dried faeces are being pushed out, though we do have a bottle of Parachoc on hand if the GP thinks it is necessary.

As for me. Well, in my old age my bowel motions have finally decided to become normal. Once a day girl, yep, that's me. Probably so I can read in peace for a few moments. What? Too much information? Surely not.

Oh, and Grumblebum and his salts? He developed treatable bowel cancer in his seventies. Took great pleasure in telling everyone he always knew there was something seriously wrong. We didn't have the heart to point out his specialist thought the years of poor diet and bowel abuse probably contributed a fair bit to the cancer developing.

Write on Wednesday - Me! Yes, Me!

I sit in my mother's house. It is no longer her home as she died last October. Her home now resides in my heart. I am in my rock chick persona/regalia. Tights, or leggings as you young 'uns call them, with flowers and sequins on the left thigh, black flowing long top with a sequinned skull on front. Chunky jewels, hair up in front. Silver heart earrings which match my chunky silver heart choker. Rock Chick. Old rock chique. Oh, and black ankle boots - I live in boots. Mutton dressed as lamb, some may say. Me all over, others would comment.

The house no longer smells of Mum. I am almost tempted to spray some eau de cologne just to recall her odour, but that wouldn't work as she stopped using it after my childhood was finished. It is a little musty, but not too bad. My desk is in the room of my mother's last bed. She changed bedrooms a couple of years ago when illness and frailty and the threat of death forced her from her comfy, large Queen bed in the front room into a whizz-bang, bells and whistles hospital bed in the second, smaller bedroom. My desk now sits beside this bed, her last place of sleep and rest. My work place.

It is quiet here, it is night. The little dog next door lets off a half-hearted yap, feeling obliged but unable to summon any real energy. I like it here when the village stills. I feel her near. The window is covered with the lace curtains I chose for her, the floor with the carpet we both liked. I built this house for her, when age and failing health forced her to leave her home of fifty two years. But I built this house to echo the home of her love, of family. I built it to be HOME. And home it was for six wonderful years. Six too short years.

This was meant to be about me, but somehow it is also about her. For without her, there is no me, and at times I feel the me left is nothing but a shadow without her. My Mum. Wise Woman, matriach, nurturer, lender of strength.

I am stopping now for the tears have dissolved the screen. I miss her. Some days unbearably so.

There Are Angels Among Us....

Sent to us for a short time, but their impact will be felt forever more.

I have learnt from them. They have taught me it is possible to love and cherish and admire and grieve for someone you have never met in real life.

I have followed their and their families' stories. I have laughed, cried alongside them with many others and felt so incredibly useless and frustrated by the events that shaped their lives.

I mourn for them as I would anyone I care so much for.

And yet we have never spoken.

RIP Bryce Henry, you amazing, brave, wonderful boy.

And Toukie - you are and always will be embedded in my heart.

Life is not always fair, and the truly special suffer too much and are taken far too soon sometimes. But know these two angels have affected thousands of people, and changed so many lives.

Never take for granted what you have.

Never forget to be grateful for it all.

Blog This Challenge 69 - Million Dollar Riff... And Then Some

Blog This Challenge 69:

What would you do if you won the big one. Not one million, or even two million, but a division one prize of 52 million dollars? Would you go public, remain anonymous, use it for good of others, or on family only? If all your financial issues were swept away, what would you do with the rest?

You'd think if I set a topic I'd have some idea of the entry, wouldn't you? Ah, well, no. And to make it worse who else but me would end up with this challenge number? Crikey. What a wedger, as we used to say in my rurally misspent youth. Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. I chose this one because the little newsagency we frequent near work sold one of the winning two tickets in the 52 million dollar jackpot last year. And to think I didn't go down to grab my usual quickpick 'cause I was running late for school pickup. Hell, I may never have had to do school pickup again... I'd just send James the Chauffeur along with Ingrid the Au Pair to do it! Damn, blast and crap. Ah well, on with my entry for Challenge 69....

Million Dollar Riff

Dear friends and certain family members,
I am saddened to inform you we have absconded from this mundane life. Recently our little family of four humans, two dogs, two cats, one cockatiel and several tropical fish won the big one. Yes, that cool $52 million anonymous winner was us. We just didn't want anyone to know. Especially you cousin Errol, you did your dash when blackmailing your eighty-something year old mother into signing blank cheques for your worthless arse to visit her in the nursing home. Oh, and old friend Sue, you may love Versace and Guess but indulging your champagne tastes whilst the power is cut off is not on. So GUESS what? You ain't getting none either.

We have allocated various amounts to worthy people we care about, your burden will be eased. Those of you will already have received the documentation in the mail. Yes, that anonymous windfall was from us. Only you know who you are and it is a legal requirement that you remain quiet or else the payment ceases. Immediately.This trust fund will divest the annuities on a regular basis for the next ten years, so plan well and enjoy life a little more. We have watched you work damn hard and struggle in these hard economic times, same as we did. You deserve this, believe me, and we are so happy to be able to share a little of our good luck.

As for the other $42 million, not that it is anyone's business, but this is where it has gone:

• $10 million bursary to support ASD children within a mainstream environment. Aimed at children aged 6 and over. To help the limbo kids - those struggling with little support, and yet unable to access special schools or public funding.
• $1 million to various charities including Animal Welfare League, Canteen, Lifeline.
• Debt payoff - $1 million.
• $5 million to fund in home care support for the aged, Wise Woman would have loved this.

What are we up to? $26 million down? Ah, yes, halfway.

• We blew $7 million on a private island paradise, think Nekker but better. Eat your heart out Richard Branson.

• Another $1 million on a yacht. Big Boy always wanted one of these.

• Invested wisely $10 million to keep an income coming in.
• Used $2 million for tax advice and avoidance.
• $7 million to play with as we feel the urge.

Do not attempt to find us, we have made sure our trail cannot be followed. Our financiers have been paid in advance to manage the trusts and bursaries, feel free to lodge all complaints and pleas for hand outs to
don'tgiveashit@richbitchmadmother.com.

Just don't expect a prompt response. Or any, to be honest.

Have a nice life.

Yours invisibly,

P.S. Another round of cocktails please Jeebs. Oh, and rub some more lotion into my shoulders would you Simon... Yes, he is the cabana boy.

Weekend Grateful: Happy To Be Me.

After a week of wonderful blog finds, a little drama and some rewind therapy, today I am grateful to be me. Why? Well, after reading of some of the family history and ongoing issues I realised a couple of things. Firstly, I may be considered by some to be confrontational, I know there are people who think I'm a bitch.  But I like me. I am a strong, honest, outspoken woman who yes, can be blunt, but am proud of who I am. I stuff up at times, I am not some sort of perfect person. I get things wrong but do own my mistakes and apologise when wrong.

You want to know why I am happy to be me? Why I know and like myself? I was loved unconditionally, supported unequivically, and told that nothing was impossible if I worked hard. My family, my wonderful, loving, amazing family which continues through to the new generation. Through hard times and tragedy, always together, always there for each other. Ongoing with my husband and children. Live, life, love. Truly blessed. For this I am grateful. Always.

Oh, and if you want to know more about these wonderful people from my childhood, read about:

• Wise Woman
• Grumblebum
• Flame-Haired Hellraiser
• Yee-ha Grandma
• Monty

By following those links. As for Big Boy, Boy 1 and Boy 2, well there are so many posts I'll let you track those by searching those terms in my blog, lol.

Back to add another blog hop on the recommendation of Maxabella!

Memoir Monday and Other Crapola in this Screwed Up World

Today I was intending to post the details *cough* story of my engagement ring melodrama, and the role Wise Woman played. It was to be my Memoir Monday that I normally post on a Tuesday because Trav is a yank and his Memoir Monday is launched on Aussie Tuesdays. Sometimes. As in when he feels like doing one.

Then I realised the date. January 17th - the birth day of my father, Grumblebum. How could I not do a Memoir Monday dedicated to him on his birthday? Now I just need to dig into those dark recesses of my cobweb filled mind to find one I have yet to share here...

Ah yes... How to Dump a Boy without ever Uttering a Word

I mentioned in another post on Grumblebum how tall and *ahem* large he was in life. (Yeah, go back, look at the one linked in his name back up a bit). What I did not mention was that he suffered from a slight hearing loss. Which made his already loud voice LOUDER. BOOMING in fact. Sort of like those really ear-bursting announcements you hear over the microphone in some stores. The ones that make you need a change of underpants.

Now, for all my brashness I have an affliction which made it difficult for me to tell the boys of my youth when I lost interest. Yep, Madmother has... a soft heart. I just could not make myself dump someone, it was just too crushing to frail teenage male egos. So, I utilised my secret weapon.

Grumblebum. How, you may ask? No, I didn't tell porkies and have him go out seeking vengeance for his daughter's reputation. I just, ah, made use of circumstances. And my Dad's loud voice, short fuse and lack of tolerance. My Dad spent most evenings after work at the Bowling Club. Great Aussie tradition, the Bowling Club. Leave work, head to the club for a couple of hours, unwind away from nagging family, come home ooh, around 7ish for tea. With a *cough* few schooners under his belt.

Sooooooo, when young Madmother needed to dump discourage a paramour, it would run like this...

I'd avoid said boy over a period of around a week or so. Have Wise Woman field phone calls (easier in the days before mobiles), keep away from usual hang outs, run in other direction if visual contact made. Until said boy, out of sheer frustration, would turn up on doorstep. Frantically run around turn off all lights. Hide in house until, unbenownst to boy, Grumblebum shambles up driveway and in back door. To dark house. "What the blazes is going on here?" usually first words as he trips then finds kitchen light. At light and sign of life, said boy frantically pounds on front door, holds finger on really annoying *ding-ding-dingaling-ding* doorbell and yells out my name. Sorta like Brando in Streetcar, but instead of STELLA he calls MADMOTHER...

At this point Grumblebum storms to front, yanks door open, and with bright red face, standing 6ft 2", weighing over 20 stone, booms out "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" top of his considerable lungs. Cue rapidly shrinking teenage boy stuttering, stumbling, mumbling, slowly backing away from enraged father, muttering... "I am here to see Madmother, is she here?"
"No! And don't bother coming back."

They never did. Bad, Madmother, bad.

Happy Birthday, Dad. And they wonder where I get it from, lol.

Party hard in heaven Lulu. Yes, after the tragic loss of Lucy's sister Amy only a week or so ago, the family now has to cope with the sudden death of our own dear Lulu, under very similar, heart-breaking circumstances to her sister. You will never be forgotten, dear girl. xx

The world is a truly grey place at the moment.