Adventures in Autistic Parenthood
Friday, November 23, 2012
(Warning: Sudden segue' alert!) One of my favorite Lucille Ball movies is 'Yours Mine and Ours' with Henry Fonda. If you want to know the plot, you'll have to look it up (1968 ver.). Basically all you need to know is; Man with 10 kids meets woman with 8 and then they have one together. As they're heading to the hospital for no. 19, Fonda explains 'Love' to Ball's eldest daughter... Life isn't a love in, it's the dishes and the orthodontist and the shoe repairman and... ground round instead of roast beef. And I'll tell you something else: it isn't going to a bed with a man that proves you're in love with him; it's getting up in the morning and facing the drab, miserable, wonderful everyday world with him that counts.
If you adjust the content slightly (the going to bed part, particularly) the sentiment applies to Dudes as well. Not wanting to sound harsh (but hey.. it's my blog, so what the hell...), but this is the criteria that shows me the difference in the 'love' of his mother and the love he gets every silly, loud, aggravating, crazy, wonderful day from Raine. Like dough-boys in the trenches we're ill-prepared, but every time the whistle blows we still go over the trenches in the face of the withering fire of game and movie quotes. (Drama much?)
On a regular basis I try not to deal with 2 state agencies, 2 county agencies, 2 schools, 1 school district, and the Federal Government (Your Tax Dollars at work to confuse the hell out of Everybody). Thankfully, not all on the same day... well almost never anyway. And I have to say, in my humble, yet all knowing opinion... that working for the government, any government makes you do strange and stupid things. Mostly just so some one person can't later say that you didn't do, whatever it was, for them... And then sue your ass off.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
|The shirt says 'EASY'... he isn't|
Dave is currently in the 'transition' stage for all his programs. Technically he's in the beginning stages of moving from juvenile (delinquent) to adult programs.Ms Antoniades (Anton-yet-ease) is the Special Ed supervisor at Dave's new school district and she told me it was time to start David's 'Transition'. This got me thinking about the word, and what it means, (Well that, and the fact that I had nothing else to write about.) so I looked it up.
1. Movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another; ex: the transition from adolescence to adulthood.
|Evil little smile...|
Not knowing what else to do I went back to my 'transition' definition:
a. a passage from one key to another; modulation
b. a brief modulation; a modulation used in passing
c. a sudden, unprepared modulation
I'm not sure even I can stretch any kind of metaphor out of that one. Except for 'c' David is a series of sudden, unprepared modulations of random types, mostly vocal.
So back to the definition I went:
3. a passage from one scene to another by sound effects, music, etc., as in a television program, theatrical production, or the like.
Okay, this one I had a bit more luck with. We are definitely passing from one scene to another and Dude is a series of sounds and effects. Oh and he is a total theatrical production. (Oh! The Pain! The Pain! There could be internal bleeding!) But really, it didn't help me much, so I moved on.
4. to make a transition: He had difficulty transitioning from enlisted man to officer.
So far Dave isn't the one having difficulty with the 'transition'...(sorry, 'Transition', they always say it like it has a capital letter) so I was left pretty much to my own devices. I pick up trivia like a Sham-Wow! sucks soda through a carpet, so I entered the word into the aging database, rattled it around for a while, spun a prayer wheel, lit some incense, sacrificed a goat (well, lamb... it was a gyro) and waited for the results to come bubbling to the surface.
The word itself is about movement. Physical, emotional, metaphysical, sight or sound. Moving on, moving along going around. Going from here to there, one thing or another. It's enough to make you tired just thinking about it.
Friday, August 10, 2012
A typical outing is something like this: Dave and I walk into the grocery store/bank/something with a counter, and he walks right up to the counter, (regardless of the presence of a line, or our place in it) leans one or both elbows on the counter and says something like, 'Hey babes! How's it going?' And then he just starts talking. Doesn't seem to matter what he's talking about. (Which is a good thing since sometimes I'm not sure he even knows what he's talking about. It could be movie quotes: 'Hmm I bet she gives great helmet!', (Spaceballs) or something from the thousands of movies and games that are stuck in his head and come pouring out of his mouth. The woman/women (numbers are no defense, apparently) stares at him a moment in confused admiration, glance at me for some sort of confirmation/reassurance, at which time I make my only contribution to... whatever Evil Scheme this is. I raise one eyebrow, and smile. That's it. After that he's on his own. I'm pretty sure he doesn't need even that, because within about 2 minutes he's done it again. Made them into Dude's Robot Slaves (pat. pend).
|Would you buy a used car from this guy?|
When we moved about 10 miles upriver I thought, sadly, that we'd seen the last of Leah. I know that for my Midwestern friends moving 10 miles does not always mean a change of branches, because that's still the closest bank. But here, moving 10 miles is like moving to another State. A far-away state, that still has strange-speaking Yinzers (Pittsburghers) in it.I've known people here that have retired less than a mile from the house they grew up in, and proud of it. Everything changes, with a move of more than a couple miles, sometimes even blocks. You have to get new shops, restaurants, bars, mechanics, and banks. So I was almost certain we'd seen the last of Leah. Until we walked into our new branch the very next week and there she was! David didn't even blink. Silly Dad... Naturally she would be there. Wasn't that where he was going to be? The power of the Dude-Call is not to be underestimated.
In addition there are now two other women in that branch that are now Dude's Robot Slaves (pat.pend) and every time (infrequently) that I go in without David I'm grilled as to why I was allowed out without supervision. The interrogation continues until they are satisfied that I didn't A: Slip away without Dude-knowledge. B: Didn't somehow lose David in some sort of high-stakes poker game. Or, more importantly, C: Let some other Robot Slave care for him for any length of time.
Every one of David's teachers has seemingly fallen under the same spell. (Hey, it could be magic, I don't know) When we first moved here Dude went to Raccoon Elementary School for a total of two months. After living with his mother for about a year and a half (flashback) he returned to the Dad-den and then went to a different school. Not that year, but at the third year's Special Olympics we were stopped by a cry of 'David! How are you doing?' This strange (to us) woman walked briskly up to us and started babbling like a fan to a Rockstar. It took several moments for me to ascertain that she had been David's teacher's aide at Raccoon and that she had just come over to tell us how much everyone loved him there and still talked about him, and just to check on him to see how he was doing. Dave, of course, ignored everything after acknowledging his Just Due as Robot Slave Overlord, leaving me to converse with this politely concerned woman whom I'd met maybe twice, three and a half years before. I managed not to sound too much like a moron, I thought, but she was giving me concerned looks as she walked away.
|Let's go check on the Robot Slaves, Dad|
I remember hearing a story about William 'Bud' Abbott and his partnership with Lou Costello. From 1935-1957, Bud was Lou's straight man, and he got a lot of flack for being the 'mean guy' to the child-like Costello for all of those 2+ decades. And even though he loved Lou like a brother, he hated being the 'straight' for every one of those 22 years. But when given the opportunity to start later with a new partner and very good reviews, Bud declined, saying, 'No one could ever live up to Lou.'
And that's pretty much the way I think about our little comedy team. I may hate being the bad guy. I may be jealous for being the 'straight man' and wish I could get all the laughs.... but No one could ever live up to Dude. He's my partner.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
|Time to put the Game-Face on|
While I admired her pluck, and her bravery in the face of almost certain peril (There could be peril...at least some) something made me pause for more than a moment. I told her I'd have to think about it, and I'd let her know, and hung up on her, probably rather rudely.
As I was hesitating, I had to wonder why I was even hesitating. Dude would love it, he'd be with his buddies, the teachers and coaches would all be experience people. Most of them would know David or at least have heard about him (Rockstar: remember?) and would, no doubt be able to handle him. I mean they, or their clones handle Dude or more every day. And, as an extra bonus, there would be new elevators. Then it struck me. I had never, never allowed anyone I didn't personally know take David anywhere, ever. (I try not to imagine what happens at his mom's) The only person not directly related to him that I've even allowed to have him overnight is Raine. And she's the only one I have no qualms about him staying with. And this would be 4 days, hundreds (150) of miles away without any direct contact at all. He could be wreaking havoc across the countryside, and I'd never know. And besides, I'd miss him.
Raine and Dude getting to the school has been kind of problematic at times, so this time when they were gliding up the hill to Friendship Ridge, Raine asked David facetiously, 'Dave, is this the way to school?' The immediate reply? 'NOOOOO! NO!! No school!' Raine countered with, 'Dude, we have to go to the school to get on the bus to go to State College.' Dude can change direction quicker than a weather-vane in a tornado, 'Oh... Sorry! My Bad! My Bad!' and as they got closer to the turn... 'Right here! Turn here for the bus to go to STATE COLLEGE!!!' I guess her DPS (Dude Positioning System) recalibrated... or at least recalculated. Anyway, Raine managed to corral a very exited Dude at least long enough to remember to get his bag in the Big White Tour Bus (told you he's a Rock Star) and got him on his way.
So, there I was. Voluntarily Dudeless for the first time ever. (Visitation doesn't count-not voluntary) I spent the whole day absent-mindedly going about my business. That night, after intense discussion with my Spiritual Guru (Raine) I decided that I was going to hop the next motorcycle to State College and watch some Olympic glory. (Hey... I told you I'd miss him)
After the longest motorcycle ride of my career, I finally made it to State College only to find out that I wasn't really wanted there... It wasn't the coaches. They were just confused (but pleased) that I showed up after I'd said I wasn't going to. Although I must have explained 6 times that I wasn't there because of them, or Dude, I was there because I couldn't not be there (yeah, I know, double negative. pththththth!), and that I was merely an observer. Nope, the one that tried to kick me out was my own dear, sweet son, David. (I'm changing my will) When told, 'Dad is here!' he replied, 'NOOOOOOOOOOO!' and took off.... After he was tracked-down, lasooed, hogtied, and returned, I explained, 'I'm not taking you anywhere! I just want to watch!' (Lo, how the mighty control-freak has fallen) then he proceeded to pretty much ignore me for the next 36 hours. You know, since I wasn't actually there.
|...and you do the Hokey-Pokey...|
The coaches also had my number... and they used it. Turns out there was something I could do at SO... I could watch Dude have fun. There was a get-together for all the athletes where they played games, danced, won prizes and generally had a hell of a time. After finding a motel and the only cloud that was actually raining in PA. (Hail hurts at 60 on a bike) I made my way back to the Olympic Village (dorms). When I got there Dave was doing the Hokey-Pokey and had already worn out one 'coach' and was well on his way to out dancing a second. When Ms. Neidbala had finally had enough (and lost one pair of sunglasses. Which Dude gave back later), she tried to interest him in a game with about 20 other kids, a ball, and a parachute, but that didn't last very long. So, she succumbed to the inevitable and gave Dave her extra iPhone so she could take a break. Other than another (brief) dancing session, that's how Dude spent the rest of the evening, perfectly contented with all his activities. I returned to my room, slightly jealous, but just about to explode with happiness at seeing David finally getting to be completely Dude, without Dads, or anyone else trying to contain him (much).
The next day, much rested, and ready for battle I returned to the track. Dude's first event was the 50 meter dash, but it was going to be a while before it started. Jemma (the Dude-wrangler) had implemented a clever scheme. If Dude listened and was good for 45 minutes he could have the iPhone for 15... and it worked! But the time finally came for the 50 meter.
he'll do to get one. So I was a bit nervous about the race, because State Special Olympics takes a dim view on some of his practices. But the race started without any troubles and Dude was off in a flash! The only one that was close to him was a big kid a couple of lanes over, but David wasn't going to lose this race! Now normally there's a line of parents/timekeepers/coaches/helpers at the finish line to help the kids know when to stop. At State no one but the officials were allowed on the field and they timed the race from trackside. So when David and the Big Kid (never caught his name) reached the finish line in a fever of competition, neither of them noticed it. Neither one was going to let the other win the race if they could help it. So on they tore past the finish line and around the corner with the two, seemingly fit, high-school volunteers racing after them vainly. By the time the first one had caught up to Dude, he'd actually already won another 50 meter race.
|The Winna! and still Champeen!|
|Hail to the King, baby..|
|I did what?|
So that was it. The rest of the Team had already finished their events. Once Dude was done all that was left was to gather everything up and get ready to go back to the Village for a bit more frivolity before the closing ceremonies and bus ride home the next morning. Oh... and for Dude-Dad to fade into the sunset on his motorcycle. And so that's what I did, full of good, warm fuzzy feelings at seeing my son run rampant, for a time, in a situation totally geared for acceptance of who and what he was. A society for the Asocial. A little sad too, knowing he was leaving the next day for his 'Visitation' and I'd have to be the 'bad guy' when Dave got home from visiting his mother. Then I realized I was just feeling sorry for myself, and, unlike Dude, was missing a Wonderful Day of my own. So that's what I did, enjoyed the day, the ride, and the thought of many Wonderful Days to come.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
|Look into my eye!|
After the visiting part was over and the 'Raine spending time with mom' part had begun, Dave and I went for a walk outside. And as we were walking back down the hallway to the elevators a man passed us on the left and Dude made a funny sound. Dave generally walks around plugged into his 3DS and doesn't have any social shame anyway, so he often makes noises or says things that people can misinterpret and take offense to. So I turned to him to shush him and was shocked to see his face locked into a spastic rictus and as his whole body jerked several more times strange grunts were forced from him. Even though he'd never had one it took me only a moment to realize that he was in the midst of a seizure. With his back against the wall and his body spasming he turned toward me as best he could and with a heart-rending plea in his eyes, and tried to reach for me as his body betrayed him repeatedly. I immediately reached to him and lowered him gently to the floor. I cradled his head and quickly scanned him as he went into full Grand Mal, or tonic-clonic seizure.
One of the few benefits of being me is that I am my own PA system. When I need to be heard, I will be, no matter the background noise. So when I yelled, 'I'm gonna need some help here!' the previously empty corridor became a beehive of activity in mere moments. The professionals shuttled me to the side (not knowing how useful I can be) and immediately began to have problems lowering the gurney, lifting him onto said gurney, and then getting the damn thing to stay up once they'd raised it again. I finally stepped in and helped the nurse at my end to secure the thing. Another nurse (what was she doing this entire time? No idea) asked me if Dave had ever had a seizure before and in the 5 seconds it took me to answer they somehow made Dude disappear. I looked down at my hand and had no memory at all of how the hell I'd managed to separate David from his DS3, but there it was. Right there in my hand.
Then the Cavalry came charging to the rescue in the form of Raine swooping down on the ER like a mother eagle. I heard her voice berating the ER reception lady from across the hall. 'What do you mean I can't go see him?' I heard in an angry, strident, but somehow familiar, tone, 'You'd better open this door, or I'm gonna break it down!'. Luckily for the receptionist I stepped out into the hallway and told the lady she'd better let her in before anyone found out if bullet-proof Plexiglas was also Raine-proof (she had chairs close at hand, and the will to use them).
As I was explaining to Raine that we had to wait until after the initial Doctor-hovering to see Dude, a nurse walked up to us and said we could go see him. He was something of a minor mess. He'd been stripped to his skivvies and mostly covered with a blanket and was lolling around in a totally un-Dudelike state. If I hadn't seen post-seizure reaction before I'd have thought they'd sedated him to keep him quieter. (Which at times has been tempting, but I've never actually done it) Like most patients after a seizure Dave was pretty much... well stoned. Slurring his words and making even less sense than usual. He was in and out of it for a while, but he seemed less restless with me there holding his hand. So that's what I did for the next hour, or so While Raine finished off the paperwork woman. (I meant 'with the paperwork woman', I'm almost certain I meant 'with') After watching me with him while they administered an EKG, the ER nurses began to get some idea that it might be a good thing to have me around, so they insisted I attend all the tests.
After a while, when Dude was recovered somewhat, the time came for 'the tests'. First up was a CAT scan of his brain. So they wheeled him out of the room, bed and all, and immediately rammed the corner into the door frame. Dave hollered out, 'Watch out! There's a door there!'. and then, as the nurse bumped the door again because she was laughing, 'Be careful! We don't want to go to the Emergency Room!'. Let's just say that her driving skills didn't improve. It's hard to double over with laughter and see where you're going at the same time, I guess.
|Am I under arrest?|
When we were escorting the Rockstar's bed through the ER halls and back to his room I heard several of the nurses already talking about David in that awed, giggly tone of someone who's been hit with a cute-ray set on 'Oh My Gosh!'. I don't mean to sound petulant, but I'm sure there weren't this many women thinking I was this cute when I was 17. Certainly not when I was lying half-naked on a gurney, or possibly even when lying all-naked anywhere. Anyway, despite his father's jealousy Dude's hospital visit seemed to be going well.
After a few more tests, some consultations, much spinning of prayer wheels, and, for all I know, a flip of a coin. It was Determined (by some office drone at Tri-State Pediatric, David's GP) that Dude had the ill-considered bad taste to have his 'event' at the wrong hospital (so much for the good-luck factor). So we were advised to go back home, wait for him to have another seizure, and then take him to a more fitting hospital (one that they had an association with). Needless to say the anxious large man with the long hair (me) was not pleased. So not pleased in fact that he flat refused to go home and insisted on a transfer to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh within the hour. And so it was to be.
Dave loved the ambulance ride. He especially loved to tell the guy driving how to get someplace Dave had never been before. They made the mistake of mounting their GPS where Dude could see it, and he called out directions the entire 20 minute trip. With a double dose of directional assistance we made it safely to the ER at CHP (Lots of anacronyms in this one). Which was exactly where the officious oaf from Tri-State wanted us to end up (after another seizure for cripe's sake) but it was also exactly where I wanted to be. Children's has the best group of doctors in the area and I wanted a part of that focused on my son.
So let's tally up and see what has been done so far:
1 CAT scan
2 EKG's (one at each hospital)
2 X-ray techs
7 Nurses (now under Dude's Evil Spell. pat.pend)
And 1 officious oaf (is there any other kind?) from Tri-State Ped.
Fragile X, as a possible cause for his autism, and ARVD, a genetic heart condition that runs in my family. The Grand Sum Total of the last 2 months watching every twitch of my son expecting him to explode? Or, more realistically, to seize? Imagine if you will, the entire medical community of Pittsburgh shrugging their collective shoulders. I'm starting to think Dude staged the whole thing just to get to ride new elevators....
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
|Look what they made me, Dad!|
A few months ago, Dude had a bit of a cough for a couple of days, but wasn't showing any more symptoms than that until one afternoon while we were both alone in the house. David was upstairs preparing to battle (or do) Evil depending on his mood and the game he was playing. I was downstairs, on the couch reading a book, when I heard him take a break from his Gaming to attend to the necessities of nature. Since no one else was in the house I clearly heard him start his business and with the slight smile of one who spent many extra years teaching his son to go when he needed to instead of just when told, I went back to my book. There were no sound producing electronic devices or people in the house so there were no distractions to block the sound that I heard next.
'My dick is bleeding!'
My head snapped up from my book and my keen, analytical mind caused my mouth to say, 'What the fu....?' Trying to convince myself I hadn't heard what I knew I'd heard, I ran up the stairs to find David, business unfinished looking from me to his male appendage, almost as if he wanted me to 'fix it', like it was a broken controller or something. 'What did you say?' I demanded as I entered the little room. He looked from himself to me and back to himself almost nervously. I suddenly realized that perhaps he thought that he was in trouble for using 'the D-word'. I curbed my frustration (I've had a bit of practice with that) and asked him again, only sounding a little (ok, maybe more than a little) anxious, 'What did you say?'
It suddenly dawned on me what was likely going on. Dude is something of a Drama King. (no telling where he got that.... shut up Lorraine!) Nothing 'hurts' with Dave, it 'bleeds'. He'll stub a toe or drop something on a finger or even get a mosquito bite and immediately yell out, 'It BLEEDS!' So the Dude-dad brain should have translated 'My dick is bleeding!' to 'Father, I don't wish to alarm you, but I'm experiencing a certain discomfort in my genital area.' With 2 ex-wives, 4 pregnancies, 4 sisters, and uncountable Aunts and female cousins in my experience, I've had dealings with, or heard about, just about everything that can happen to the urinary tract in graphic (and sometimes embarrassing) detail. So it occurred to me that my son might have some sort of urinary infection. Either that, or my son's generative member actually was on fire, I just couldn't see the flames.
Trusting in the homeopathic remedies that have served generations of pregnant women so well, I started him on a regimen of cranberry juice and extra water and cut out what little caffeine he might have had. Within hours, seemingly, he was doing much better, and I didn't hear anything more about 'bleeding', but his cough continued through the Holiday.
One sure sign that David isn't feeling well is when he doesn't eat. Especially when the meal consists of something with cheese, sauce, gravy, or pasta. (The perfect Dude-meal would consist of all of these elements and have the ability to be dipped in ketchup and ranch dressing) (Thankfully, modern gastronomic science has yet to develop such a thing) Since Thanksgiving is the gravy-est, most sauce laden holiday on the map, with cheese and ranch dressing thrown in and left-overs with pasta, it's nearly a perfect fit. So when Dude ignored his high-piled plate and didn't even touch the warm, freshly buttered rolls, I knew we were in trouble.
Once the holiday weekend was over we decided to take Dave to the doctor. Somehow it was Raine's turn. I made the call, got the appointment, but I was bundled firmly off to work and Raine was the one who kept it. For one reason or another Dude has a lot of experience in Doctor's offices. He usually hates going to the doc's office, hospital (except for elevators!), care center, et al, so I distractedly went about my work and glanced at my phone every 10 minutes expecting to have to drop everything and rush to Beaver (it's really a town, and that really is its name) after a call from the Sheriffs Office Hostage Negotiation Unit to un-barricade my son from the Medical Center where he was running rampant. I'd show up and there'd be helicopters and news anchors swarming overhead and a crowd of people gawking behind caution tape with Japanese tourists snapping pictures of the carnage. Okay, so maybe I was a little paranoid... and very imaginative.
When the call came it was Raine and not only did I not have to rush to rescue the public from the ravages of my offspring, but he was almost wonderful at the doctor's office. (the little weasel!) He charmed the front desk ladies with some witty and familiar banter: 'Hi babes! We're at the doctor's office to see the doctor.' And then when they walked him back to the examining room he reached up to flip the little colored indicator flags near the door. 'Not that one,' The nurse stopped him, 'it's the yellow one.' 'Yep, it's the Yellow one!' he said, merrily and flipped the appropriate flag. The doctor came in later, as doctors do, and started the examination. Dave was cheery and co-operative and more energetic than he had been for days. Everything seemed fine until the doc listened to his chest. 'Oh yeah, that's not good.' she murmured in a cheery tone, then moved her stethoscope, 'Yep, definitely not good.' Dude could have cared less about the diagnosis, he was quiet while she listened to his chest, and then continued babbling once she sat back up.
Raine was still anxious about Dude, despite the fact that like a car taken to a mechanic, he didn't seem to have a thing wrong with him. The doctor said admiringly, 'Look at him, you'd never know that he was a sick little boy, would you?' 'How sick?' Raine asked as the doctor looked down David's (for once quiet) throat, "Oh, yeah," she said, sounding as if she were announcing a birthday, "It's like a river running back there."
|Feeling fine, and ready to go!|
Of course the successful treatment of his ailment meant that he felt fine while Raine and I struggled through the cold that caused his pneumonia that, once he no longer needed it, he generously gave to us. I know there are benefits to having children. I may not be sure what all of them are, but I know that good physical and mental health aren't anywhere on the list.
Monday, April 30, 2012
In the next couple of days it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for Dude to start down the stairs whenever we called him. Either for meals or to take something else up to his room he just wouldn't respond as quickly as we thought he should. He also seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting the door to open to let him out of the room. I checked the door, and it did appear to stick a bit. But, since it wasn't an emergency, and the door did work, I just had too much to do at the time to bother with, or think much more about it. And for one reason or another neither Raine or I ever went into his room while he was already ensconced before the Altar of Microsoft (Xbox) for the next several days.
One day, about a week or so later, when it started to get a bit colder, and things calmed down just a little bit Rain had Dave come down and help her take some things up to his room. They made two or three trips together and then Raine took some time to get a couple of things settled and left him to his games. Possibly 30 seconds after she returned downstairs she turned right around and took some extra blankets (still getting used to the steam heating) up to David's room.
Raine (unlike me) has a very natural and refined sense of propriety. She won't just open a door to a child's bedroom, she always announces she's entering. She also possesses a double set of fairly long, natural fingernails that she uses (with either hand) in rapid staccato fashion against the center panel of the door instead of knocking. On a solid panel door in a mostly empty house with hardwood floors this tends to sound like a veteran secretary from the 40's running an old Underwood manual typewriter to its absolute limit of speed. It's not loud, but it can't possibly be ignored. Not even by my son when he's deep in the throes of Video-Zombie-ism to the point where he doesn't even stop for Mac and Cheese. (now that's some serious gaming)
I have the great, Good Luck to witness some of the interactions between these two. It's wonderful to see, but sometimes I'm not too sure which one of us she wants to throttle more. Dave, for aggravating the crap out of her or: Me, for laughing my butt off about it. Sometimes I don't think she knows either. Our continued survival might be due to the fact that she can't take out both of us at once.
So Raine, with the kind of propriety I can't hope to imitate, stood at Dave's door, armload of blankets in one hand and doing her imitation of Arnold Schwartzenegger's Uzi with the other. (there were veterans down the street ducking for cover and screaming for an evac) When she hears through the door, 'Who iiis it?' in that sing-song tone you'd hear from the mom on old black and white sitcoms. Raine laughed abruptly and responded in a slightly different tone, 'Who is it? Who do you think it is? I was just up here 20 seconds ago!' Then I heard the door rattle. 'David Richard! You open this door!' Dude responded in the same tone he used
earlier, 'Just a mi-nute, I'll be right the-ere.' I heard a rattle, then the door opening, and my son's cheery voice greeting my mate, 'Hi Raine, how are you today?' She responded (rather grumpily I thought) 'If you don't watch out I'm going to show you how I am!' I'm pretty sure if she hadn't been so aggravated she'd have found it just as funny as I did. Well, fairly sure anyway. At any rate, the door eventually opened, the blankets were delivered, the bed made and Raine returned to the Adult section of the pool.
She walked through the door to the living room, where I was assembling something in a manly fashion (I'm fairly certain it was shower shelves, but it could have been a missile launcher, not sure) when she grumbled her way around the couch to stand, arms akimbo, directly in front of my mother's favorite son (no choice, she only had one) and said in that amused/aggravated tone that I hear so often (for some unknown reason), 'That son of yours... ' I looked up at her and said, 'Yes, dear?' But there must have been something about my look that she didn't like because she next said in a just aggravated tone, 'Oh... you're not going to be any help!'
'But dear....!' I said in my best just-trying-to-help voice. But she wouldn't listen for some reason. I mean, I had the proper concerned look on my face and used the 'I'm trying to help' voice and everything. She walked off grumbling to herself, which I'm almost certain is a sign of some sort of burgeoning mental problem (probably called Two-Dude-itis). I chuckled to myself for a couple of minutes, continuing to build some sort of 'object of mass destruction', or towel rack, can't really remember which, and thought no more about the whole incident.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
|I use this picture a lot on this blog... wonder why that is.|
Unwilling to actually believe that my son was a high-tech thief, I called back at noon and left a response on her VM: Hi Tammy, this is Dave, I'm pretty sure he was talking about my tablet or 'Layne's iPod, but I'll take a look for you when I get home and let you know either way. (Hubris: The pride that goeth before the fall)
Several hours later I arrived home and, in no special hurry, eventually made it up into my son's bedroom to search for ill gotten gains. A quick scan of the room didn't turn up anything, and quick look under the bed and on his shelves was equally fruitful. Dude, generally has no self-induced property awareness, or guilt, so it never occurred to me to be any more thorough than that. Smugly satisfied that either Tammy was a bit absent-minded or one of those 'other parents' children' had done the deed I went out on the front porch to wait for Dude's bus.
|I just got a new iPad!|
"David." I said in a quiet, but solemn tone. "Where is the iPad?"
(Please don't say it!) (but he did) 'Upstairs in the bedroom.' He stated cheerily. (Oh Crap!)
Desperately clinging to the hope that he was talking about Alayna's bedroom and her iPod, I followed him up the stairs and unfortunately directly into his room and the third drawer down in his dresser. (Double crap with a crap chaser!) After a long talk about what 'not yours' means and what would happen if he ever again returned home with any of Steven Jobs or Bill Gate's products that he didn't actually own I went downstairs to retrieve my cell phone to eat a generous helping of crow. (Maybe if I apologise 14 times and make the last hundred yards on my belly I won't have to explain to Raine why I need the number of a really good (and cheap) bail-bondsman)
I called Tammy, (introducing myself as the father of the felon) and apologised profusely for doubting her assessment of my son's illegal activities, and promised the return of her electronics Monday by Dude-post (his backpack). She was very nice and forgiving, telling me that it was okay, and that David should be spared any paternally generated doom, because when asked, he told her right where the thing was. I told her that I'd even been tempted (It's an iPad, man!) to tell her that: No, I hadn't found an iPad, never even seen one, wouldn't know it if I saw it, didn't even believe they'd ever been invented. She laughed, as if I was kidding, and assured me that Dave was in no trouble at school, hinting that that should mean he shouldn't be in trouble at home. I assured her that David would (probably) survive the weekend, and at any rate her iPad would be at the school on Monday morning, and then we hung up.
|Picture to be used on milk carton|
Just in case.