Diplomacy used to be my gig.

I took etiquette classes.  I know when to use the shrimp fork.  I know when to drink Port wine.  Hell, I even have a leather bound version of Emily Post’s Etiquette.

I made a career of being the quintessential Stepford Wife.  I couldn’t make waves at a water park.

Yet, I am persona non grata at at least 40 different dining establishments in five different states.  I’m not even going to mention grocery stores, pharmacies, doctor’s offices, post offices, Buddhist temples, and swap meets.

On Friday,  P requested “mall and eat pizza”.  Because even I’m not crazy enough to bring a three year old with autism who is recovering from strep throat and an ear infection to the mall on Black Friday I had the ingenuis idea to go to the eat-in Pizza Hut in town.  I hadn’t set foot in a Pizza Hut since the days of the “Book-it” program.  Remember that?  Where you get a free personal pan pizza for every book you read?  Good times.

He’s sitting like a “big boy” now, which is good since I was getting tired of the “are you serious?” looks I was getting when I requested a high chair.  Until Friday we’d only done “big boy eating” at Red Robin (where they know us).  It usually entails crawling under the booth back and forth between Mommy and Daddy’s side, not much eating, and lots of food on the floor.

I thought I had it all figured out, though.  I downloaded some kid’s applications (like shapes, first words, coloring) for the iPod.  Probably not the most socially engaging activity, but he couldn’t be happier.  It’s his constant companion when we leave the house.  The iPod is the single best investment I have ever made.  I hear you can listen to music on it too.

Except this time, the battery was dead.  Thwap!   Way to go, Mommy!

You see where this is going.  iPod goes sailing.  Salad, and extra plates, are chucked onto the floor (thanks Follow That Bird), the bread-sticks are HOT “no, not hot, it’s cold Mommy.  I need to clean it, cuh-lean it, CLEAN IT”.  Somehow the word “hut” became offensive and no longer can be uttered or, for that matter, pretty much any word that might have an H, U, or T in it.  (Three days later, he’s still gets all PTSD when we say the word “HUT”).  The pizza was taking like, I dunno, three hundred and forty-five hours to arrive.  We went for a walk, then another, then we let him run around the restaurant while we took turns chasing him.

Fail.  Epic.  I’m surprised the windows didn’t shatter from the shrieks.  He was rolling on the ground.  I tried to pick him up, he flailed and clocked me in the nose.  I literally expected the police to show up at any moment – and we would’ve welcomed the extra hands.

Thirty-four dollars and three personal pan pizzas in take away boxes later (seriously – THIRTY-FOUR dollars – they should bring back the Book-It program) we made it home, where P enjoyed his pizza.  He even asked to go back to the pizza store “tomorrow”.  Oh.my.God…as if!

Suffice to say, we added Pizza “Word That Shall Not be Uttered” to our ever expanding list of places we won’t be returning to.

Today, I thought I’d let Daddy rest and venture to the mall with the boy.  I had some Ugg-ish boots to exchange (cause I’m all cool and trendy like that).  It wasn’t very busy, thanks to the economic decline, so I decided to browse the sale rack at Ann Taylor Loft.  I took a few things into the dressing room while P did puzzles on the, now fully charged, iPod.

I tried on a pair of pants.  And, I swear to you I cannot make this up, my son looked up from the iPod, surveyed me carefully, said “Mommy is fat” and went right back to his puzzle.  I am pretty sure I heard a giggle from the next dressing room.  I don’t think he actually knows what the word “fat” means.  He probably just heard me say it every time once when I was getting dressed and repeated it.  Needless to say I didn’t get the pants, because regardless I do value his opinion.

Tomorrow, while he’s at school, I think I might go for a run anyway.

It’s been two weeks since we’ve GONE anywhere.  I mean, anywhere other than school, or the grandparent’s house.  There was the one day where Peter went to school and I went to the mall – ass early like at 8 – to Christmas shop.  Only to find out that the mall didn’t open until 10.  I nursed an everything bagel and a Diet Coke at Panera for over an hour pretty convincingly until I sheepishly made my way back to the car and accepted defeat, but not before witnessing the ENTIRE morning sales meeting of those women who sell fake hair in a booth.

No wonder I got such a “great” parking spot.

Not that texting and eating a bagel whilst being completely anonymous isn’t bliss.  Because it is!  Still, I really wanted to leisurely stroll through Ann Taylor Loft, without Peter pulling all the accessories off the racks and screaming “Happy New Year” and Tavi running after him all paranoid like we’re going to get banned by the snobby middle-aged sales people who never ask me if they can help because I am always wearing sweats and accompanied by said duo.   How’s that for random?

Yeah, so Peter is about 37% better today.  Better enough to have dumped an entire 36 oz box of Cheerios on the carpet (and played wine making by stomping them in real good).  Better enough to pull down a 75lb rack of DVD’s almost on his head, to dump the cat’s food and water on the cat…and oh-my-god-this-is-cosmic-timing-indeed…to empty the entire contents of the kitchen garbage on the floor while I write this post.  It’s like he knows I was talking about him.  Super ESP kid.

In cleaning up the trash (yes, I actually stopped writing to tend to my child) I noticed the box of toothpicks.  That was the first thing he “Happy New Yeared” today.  He said “Oh Mom, I can’t believe it” which I love because he TOTALLY can believe it because he did it.

While we stared at them on the floor – I fought  hard the urge to ask him how many there were.  (Oh c’mon, I had to insert the Rainman joke, I’ll never have a chance to use that one again!)

Right now he is screaming at Daddy that “the mailman is gonna buy an Oscar’s box house”.

So yeah…it’s safe to assume we’ve got a touch of cabin fever going on here.

Now he wants to go to the mall and eat pizza.  The only thing worse than taking a still 63% sick kid to the mall is doing it on Black Friday.  Although it is super cute that he just brought me my keys and is wearing my purse.

Being a responsible grown- up sucks!  I don’t want to be stuck at home watching Dragon Tales for the 84th time today, and the 4,983rd time this week, either.  I don’t care that Zac and Weezy can only fly backwards.  Two headed dragons give me the heebie-jeebies.

Sweet Monday, he should be all better by then, and back at school.  We’ll be able to get back to our therapies, and regularly scheduled programming, at least for a few weeks until Christmas.  I might actually get the house back in order for a nanosecond too.

For now, I need to figure out how to entertain us all for at least the next three hours (till bath and bedtime).  And that’s not going to happen with me on the computer.

I do plan to be a more avid blogger going forward.  I’ve been rationing my thoughts because I didn’t want to spoil you (rather bore you with the day to day not so prolific stuff) but if I keep waiting for life altering revelations to share you’ll never hear from me again.

Hope you are enjoying life on the outside…

I don’t like Thanksgiving.  It’s not just the vegetarian aversion to the mass slaughter of Turkeys, either.  It’s just that invariably something bad always happens this time of year.  This year, my sweet boy is sick.  Not “I have a cold sick”.  More like “fever for a week, not eating, ear infection, AND strep throat sick”.

Because he still can’t tell me that he’s not feeling well, and can projectile spew ANY oral medication like it’s an olympic sport, I didn’t know how sick he was until yesterday.  After three days refusing to take his medication, I brought him back to our wonderful doctor’s office, Village Pediatrics, which is by far the best pediatric office in the Triangle area (to say the least).  They always squeeze Peter in.  They know how to handle a child with Autism, and how to be compassionate and understanding to his frazzled parents.  Turns out he has strep, and the only way to get meds in him was to get a shot of penicillin.

When I was a kid.  If you had strep you immediately got a shot of penicillin.  These days kids seem to magically drink the “pink stuff”.  Not mine, at least not anymore.  He used to gulp down Augmenten (the WHITE stuff) like it was ice cream.  In fact, he would request “ice cream” and be disappointed if it WASN’T the medicine.  Yet alas, he is now traumatized by the mere concept of swallowing medication.  I mixed it with milk, yogurt, juice, Coke (yes, Coke, judge if you will) – it was awful.  I held him down and practically sat on his chest to shoot it down his throat.  The carpet, oh the carpet, there are pink and white stains everywhere.  Let’s just say, if social services or the apartment management stop by, we are totally screwed.

Anyway, we had to drive to the hospital to get the medication, and bring it back to our wonderful doctor’s office on “thanksgiving eve” so they could give it to him.  He’s still pretty sick.  But I can see that we’re going to be turning a corner.  Me, I’m pretty sure I have it myself.  I’ve been drinking the rejected “pink stuff”.  Yes, I know that you shouldn’t take medication that wasn’t prescribed to you.  But you know what, I don’t have insurance or the money (or the time) to go to the doctor.  By the way, the “pink stuff” tastes HORRIBLE, I don’t blame him for spewing it all over my previously pristine household.

Oh yes, so thanksgiving.  We had a nice day with our family. Watched the parade. My father in law ate the gizzards just to gross me out.  It was perfectly quaint. Despite being exhausted and Peter being “super Autism” boy.  Two weeks without therapy and one without school is quite telling.

It’s just a whole day about being “thankful”.  It’s stupid.  I think I’m pretty thankful every day of the year.  Today, I’m ironically feeling sorry for myself and struggled to find something to say around the table.  I ended up with “I’m thankful that none of us have swine flu…yet”.  I try to be a realist.

But really, there’s so much to be grateful for.  I know that.  I’m thankful for a house (and a home), for a family that is healthy and who loves me unconditionally, for the wonderful friends I’ve made over the past two years – and the ones who have been around for many, for all of the talented therapists, doctors, volunteers, students, and social workers that have made our life what it is today.  There are no words to thank you adequately.  We love you.  To my husband, who got on this roller coaster with me 5 years ago and has never looked back.  The man who promised he’d never give up on me, and meant it.  I know that the other shoe isn’t going to drop.  I love you more every day.

And to my son, for being the reason I want to work harder, be better, and do more.  You are my inspiration and my greatest joy.

I don’t know what the next step is.  It seems like we are doing everything under the sun that we can do, and that in many ways we are seeing progress…but then there are things that aren’t getting better.

The rigidity.  The meltdowns.  The running into traffic.

The extreme emotional sensitivity overlayed with seemingly impenetrable armor.

It’s been a month since my husband was employed.  He and I have no medical insurance.  The only silver lining is that this setback ensures Peter will remain on Medicaid, at least for the forseeable future.

I don’t have a lot of fight left in me.  Or at least I’m not sure how to tap into it anymore.  I feel like I am fighting every single day – for basic human rights.  I’m fighting for Peter and sometimes it feels like I am fighting against him.  I’m fighting for my dignity, my pride, my sense of self.

I volunteer and I serve and I advocate.  I work hard.  And it’s for me more than for him.  It’s my link to the old life.  But everything is Autism.  Everything in my life is Autism.

And how dare I complain, because it’s not really.  I mean, I can turn it off if I choose.  I can take brief respite in something, anything, else.  But Peter can’t.  He can’t choose when his system will fail him.  He can’t decide how long he’ll be able to hold it together before everything goes to hell and he’s trapped in this horrible scary lonely place.

He can’t tell us what he needs.  Sure, he can tell me he wants mac and cheese for dinner.  But can he tell me that he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of emotional collapse and that if I just do x, y, or z it’ll be okay.  No, he can’t tell me that.  And even with all the experts, all the therapy, all the time searching for a clue that it’s coming…I can’t prevent his pain.

As a mother, that feels like the ultimate failure.  To be unable to nurse the invisible boo boo.  To hold your child down while he shrieks and kicks and bites and completely loses himself and know that inside…all he wants…is for Mommy to make it all better.

I hear all of the time how wonderful he’s doing.  How he is so social and engaged and that he’s just doing so great.  That he’ll certainly be one of those “high functioning” kids.

But high functioning doesn’t mean his life will be easy.  Because he has words, pretend play skills, and can do math and other things I’m sure I couldn’t do in 2nd grade, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have to work a million times harder than most other kids to be in the game.