What…is the airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow?

I’m not kidding that my life is smack out of Monty Python. Crude humor, outrageous accents, funny looking outfits, and beating a joke to death. Visit YouTube if you weren’t as big of a nerd in high school as I was. You will thank me.

Tonight, I went into my Littles room THRICE to apologize for scolding them only to scold them for a new, stupid thing they just did before my unbelieving eyes!

I hate to end our day on a bad note. They may have been absolute monsters and broken every house rule. I may have yelled and threatened and barked orders just to get them through a meal and into pajamas. But I want to end my day with a snuggle. Even with the tweenager. That’s the plan, anyway.

Except some nights were not ordained to end well.

“This morning, shortly after 11am, comedy struck this little house on Dibley Road. Sudden, violent comedy.”

Through clenched jaws, I warned them not to do silly talk at the dinner table.

“Have you got anything without Spam?”

(No, they’re not doing the Python quotes because I would never hear the end of it were I to let them watch that level of shenanigans, but I may have actually laughed had they done so.)

My darling husband tried to spare me from their behaviors and sent me away to take a break. Lke a moron, I spent 20 minutes of my time “alone” buying small pairs of boys underwear and fighting to get the Gap Cash to work from my phone.

I emerged, even more tense but ready to hand out hugs and love, only to hear an expensive sounding BANG from upstairs.


And now for something completely different: a woman who is never overwhelmed with fury by the antics of her offspring.

Ok, ok, take a breath. Ignore that the tooth paste is getting everywhere other than inside peoples face holes.


To chew on the neckhole of my pajamas, again, again, again, and again.

I left the room, bound for a bath and to put this evening from my thoughts with a good read. NOPE! I was still feeling like I needed to go and end it well. Mother’s guilt is powerful.

Back into the fray, I was trying to tuck in the second son and he, SIR ACUTE SENSORY PROCESSING DISORDER, took umbridge with the essentials oils I had applied in effort not to put him up for adoption. He pinched his nose and waved me away, “Just go away (you silly English pig dog!)”

SO, like any woman who’s “HAD JUST ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS”, I yell-lectured my child about how he smells and I don’t say anything and “we all have to put up with each other, including child to parent, because we’re a family! Good night! I love you!” Still counts as a loving end to the day even if I yelled it,

I would be remiss if I didn’t end this post by saying,

“I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.”

Did you know that yelling is the new spanking?

The internet is filled to bursting with articles about “gentle parenting”. Described by one expert as “the sweet spot between authoritarian and permissive parenting”, gentle parenting is a partnership between you and your child.

The parent should always interact with the child in a mindful and respectful manner.

You should never, ever yell.

Allow the child’s emotions to naturally play out instead of demanding the child “calm down”.

Always factor in extra time so that everyone can get things done in their own time.

After a tantrum (that you’ve allowed to fully manifest), talk about how you might have done things differently.

Love. It. All of it sounds so wonderful. But I don’t think it’s a sustainable way to parent.

Parents are already so critical of themselves and this sets the bar impossibly high. Be in charge while letting the kid think they are in charge?

And who has so little to do that we can schedule in chunks of time for complete meltdowns to run their course? Even the most loving and respectful parents are going to fail if this is the ideal.

I had never heard of gentle parenting 13 years ago when I was pregnant with my first but I was determined to do everything the right way. For me, that meant making my body a baby manufacturing temple that was caffeine and paraben free, having a natural birth, with an airtight birth plan, learn baby sign language, and on and on the list went.

I recall a phone call I had with my doula. I was having a panic attack that I wouldn’t know how to properly care for the person I was growing.

She assured me, “This baby is going to be your buddha. He’s going to teach you everything you need to know.” M’kaaaaaaay.

My hypnobirthing instructor was also a proponent of baby-led parenting.

Between guided meditations, she spoke very highly of the novel, The Spirited Child. I came to find out this was a euphemism for a child with “exceptional” or “special” needs. Eerily prescient of her considering I have 3 kids on the autism spectrum.

Let me tell you, “birthing without fear” is kind of hard to swallow when your gurus have put it in your head that you’re going to be spending a lot of time in IEP meetings with behavioral instructors and that you should go with that because the kid is your buddha.

When I say that gentle parenting is an unattainable standard, you should listen. This comes from a woman who had a doula AND a hypnobirthing instructor. I really wanted to believe it was possible to gently parent!

Now I know that I cannot effectively raise (my) children without sometimes being a drill sergeant, a bossy pantelones, a shushing librarian, and even a yeller. Because while kids are a rollicking pile of puppies on the best of days, they are ferrel badgers the rest of the time. And the only way to be heard above all of that laugh-screeching is by yelling. Sometimes, you also have to cracking the whip if you ever want to get to the beach. And when three of them are having big feelings, someone needs to be told to calm down, even if I’m really saying it for my own ears.

But did you know that yelling is the new spanking!? It’s the worst sin a parent can commit!

I do not want to spank my kids’ feelings, but most days I do because I am not a saint. I am not my best self when it’s me against three little goblins and the dinner hour is upon us. And I’m really not my best self when I have to pile everyone back into the car after a failed outing and we still need to pick up groceries. And that’s everyday. So mostly, all the time I’m not my best self.

And that’s OK.

I’m going to give myself, and you, the grace I would insist a friend give herself.

You’re doing your best, and while it may not be pretty, it’s getting the job done. You’re not crushing their little spirits. They will grow up to be lovely people with good values because you are a lovely person with good values.

And if you f@ck up and have an epic meltdown and say some harsh, albeit true, things about their savagery, apologize.

That’s my best piece of parenting advice. Try to do your best and if you *gasp* yell at them to “calm down”, apologize.

It’s going to teach them that you’re a human with big feelings, just like them. And just like them, you don’t always make the best choices. But you own your mistakes and move on.

They will know that I love them and that I respect their feelings even if I don’t let them steer the ship.

Orangutans at the table: Life with three wild boys.

In my pre-Mama days, I watched a nature program about scientists raising a few orphaned juvenile orangutans in the jungle. The mothers had been poached and they never had the benefit of socialization.

The scientists were living with the animals in a camp. The scene that has stayed with me all of these years is one where the animals are being offered some food at a picnic table. A woman is shown trying to lay out a meal of fruit and whatnot while simulateously trying to fend off three eager primates who are snaking their arms around her, grabbing at food.

If you’ve ever seen these animals, you are aware how long those arms are! The woman was pivoting wildly from one side to the other, taking back food, turning, no, no, put that back! Not yet!

I recall being astounded by the total pandemonium. Give up, lady! Just throw down the food and zip yourself into that tent!

Flag forward a dozen years later I have three sons and that nature film streams live in my kitchen every day. It’s a feral situation! Veteran mothers of sons may not be surprised, but even having grownup with three brothers who talked about poop at every single meal, my kids are able to take the shenanigans to a new level.

They are autistic and it is part of my job to enforce food therapies and social-emotional regulation. Particularly during the pandemic when they have not had full access to all of their therapies.

I am trying to socialize my little wildlings. Using a napkin, eating with utensils, not shoveling food two-fisted into their mouths, and not having a full tantrum when non-preferred food items are offered.

It’s definitely not an option to zip myself into a tent, so I play the naturalists/socio-therapist at every meal. And let me tell you, I get massive points above those scientists who did not also have to deal with the silly-talk component.

My orangutans do know how to sweep the kitchen. Credit where credit I due, fellas.

I’m COVID, how are you? Relearning how to speak to people during a pandemic.

Embracing being a weirdo at my son’s dragon themed birthday party whose only guests are people who live in my house.

There’s a comedian, Brian Regan, who does this funny bit about not being able to properly speak English, his native language.

“I know enough English to get by, like, I could order in a restaurant and stuff. ‘I want Ham! One ham please, to eating the ham! Bring ham to eating the ham, please!’ You know, I can get by. “

This is topical on multiple levels. I have always been socially awkward and I habitually lose 100 IQ points when I attempt to vocalize. I’m just smarter on paper. And because of COVID it’s been 14 months since I’ve eaten in a restaurant, so what would that even be like?

So, forget the anxiety of speaking to masked strangers in a poorly ventilated environment. I have lost the ability to even speak with friends and family.

I’m feeling like I can relate to my autistic kids so much better because of the pandemic. I perseforate on my one topic: COVID news. I literally have one thing on my mind at all times and I only know how to talk about that. And I cannot make small talk. What’s the point of that? It seems disingenuous. Kids, I get it.

When we were all in lockdown together, it sort of worked. It didn’t make for great conversations, though, so I found myself avoiding talking to people outside of my family. Even dear friends.

Now, people are “out there”. The “economy has opened up”. And I guess other people have shorter memories or are just that desperate for a regular, non-deadly world. People tell me that they are doing something that’s not in line with my hard fast pandemic lifestyle, I just freeze and become completely tongue tied.

You signed your kids up for soccer and swimming lessons? You’re out shopping? We should meet up at the park?!

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Total mental implosion.

I don’t even want to continue the conversation because I feel unseen and unheard. I’m going to be hiding in my panic room for the foreseeable future due to my health issues. And I’m vaccinated! If I’m out in society, I’m physically manuvering around people, not trying to chat. This is not the norm anymore. And I come off like a freak.

I was delivering a dozen goodie bags for my son’s virtual birthday party. Yup, that’s something I did. And there was a mother and the class peer playing in the driveway. I approached them like they were potential terrorists.


I started booking it back to my mommy van and the dear mother, probably as desperate for human contact as any distance learning family, called after me, “I like your hair!”

“Thanks! Thank you! For the complimenting my hair! Bye!” And I booked it out of the neighborhood.

Am I totally embarrassed by this and horrified that I don’t know how to have basic human interactions? Yuppers! But that’s where I’m at.

Small talk is a skill that gets rusty. Small talk. I don’t think of anything small. Global crisis is my default setting.

How am I? Do you want the truth, that I’m white-knuckling it through each day? Or are we just warming up for a “normal” conversation.

I don’t know how to do that anymore.

“please consider the impact on the environment before printing this email”

This is my “furious with Special Education administrator” face.

Yes, there was a time when people printed out emails. It was called the aughts? 2000’s? One of those.

Regardless, it was a thing and it was wasteful. Of course, there’s always those who know better and do better, so they would add to their email signature to “please consider the impact on the environment before printing this email. ” Fair enough. A bit douchey, but point taken.

But. BUT! There are still people who have this in their signature. We are all so perma-mobile, even grandmas have a smart phone and know how to pull up an email.

The bigger point is, have people learned how to read an email or respond to one?

To everyone more concerned with my printing their electronic mail I would ask that they please consider the impact on my brain of the content of their ridiculous correspondence. The choices seem to be that they didn’t fully read my query, ignored it completely, had a brain fart and started an entirely new train, or just chose to allow me to chase them down for a month before replying.

Emailer, your carbon footprint, as a less than fully realized thinking human, is far more exhausting to the environment than my printer paper. I can recycle the paper. You, however, will still be frustrating the shit out of people, and probably getting paid to do so, for another 3 or 4 decades.

So, yeah, take down your pompous signature and do some actual work. Because that would be the least wasteful of a non-renewable resources, i.e. my time and energy.

Our Second Grade Teacher is Fucking with Leprechaun Traditions

Since it’s St. Patrick’s Day Eve, let me ask you, are you tormented by this new generation celebrating every minor event? I’m a real grown up, a Gen X-er, a child of the 80’s, so I call bullshit when I see it. I never celebrated St. Patty’s Day beyond wearing a green shirt and trying to pinch other kids who forgot to wear green. Because that was the mean spirited fun that the 80’s was predicated upon.

St. Patrick’s Day is a grown-up holiday. With haggis and corn beef and Guinness! It’s for Irish people! (And I’m Irish, and from Boston, so I do get to have this rant.) And it’s mainly drinking and getting into bar fights. But now eeeeeverybody celebrates it. Everyone is Irish on March 17th. Fine. Get your drink on. I don’t want to take away from the salient point of this article which is: we now have ridiculous holiday customs that amount to more work for grown ups who might just want to drink the aforementioned beer and eat the (gross)food. But we’re all agreed on certain things. There is something called a leprechaun. He’s a imp from Ireland who keeps his gold at the end of the rainbow. He likes cereal containing awesome marshmallows. And once a year, he breaks into my house and tries to steal my shiny, shiny gold.

It began in 2013:

ONE THOUSAND CURSES upon the preschool teacher who first introduced “The Leprechaun Trap”. You know who you are. Yes, I had a hyperactive, autistic 3 year old and I was very pregnant, so I was inordinately pissed when my son bounced around the house, explaining that we needed to haul out all manner of boxes and pillows and blankets to make a trap and then bait the trap with shiny jewelry. If we caught him, he’d have to give us his gold!


Boxes. Blankets. Costume jewelry. Pennies. Every year, more elaborate schemes were concocted. Sticky tape on the window sills, misleading signage about leprechauns being welcome here…it’s was all a bit dark, but I was in deep after a few years and just went with it. Like with many things in a parent’s life, this is what we do now. We make leprechaun traps.

(I think I may have been getting off easy as I know some parents put green glitter everywhere, and glitter is verboten in my house. )

Spoiler Alert: If you’ve never had a leprechaun trap, he always gets away. In my house, he manages to “drop” some $1’s and chocolate coins. We eat Lucky Charms for breakfast and wear a green shirt. We have been doing leprechaun traps for 9 years. It’s tradition. And hard headed Irish folk will tell you, you don’t mess with tradition.

Well, this year, 2nd son’s teacher, the fecking eejit, drops “Lilly the Leprechaun Liaison” into our world. I shit you not. She, being Lilly, sent home a very officious looking document, in fancy font, printed in green ink with little shamrocks across the header, laying out this cockamamie story that alllllllll along, we’ve misunderstood leprechauns! They’re not trying to cause mischief! No, they want to be our friends! And, they’re the size of a mouse.

Did I remind you that I’m doing distance learning for three children so this really is the equivalent of taking a dump on my lawn? And speaking of which,

Bullshit! I call bullshit. You cannot just step in and totally change the whole backstory of a popularly maligned imp just to push your touchy-feely, we’re all friends in 2021 ethos. I even tried to call out the ridiculousness of this supposition, but apparently, a 7 year old is very, very swayed by green ink and shamrock clip art. Not wanting to be a total asshole, I helped him make his little house for the “mouse -sized” leprechaun. But I’m not happy about it!

And now I’ve got waring leprechaun philosophies in my house! The OG son is wanting to build a trap. He walked away in disgust as my 2nd son insists that we construct a castle, nay, a VILLAGE for our diminutive friend. 3rd son is just excited to have so many Target boxes pilled up in the living room. 1st son is even claiming that he doesn’t believe in magic anymore. So thanks very much for ruining Easter, the Tooth Faerie, and Santa, ya geebag!

So, this is where we’re at. Our family is divided. We went from trying to trap the leprechaun and make him give us his gold, to building him a twee little home and being his friend.

Tonight, I say,

Screw you, ya gobshite not-even-Irish teacher! I hope the leprechaun leaves a disproportionately large green shit on your bed. Cuz he’s not tiny like a mouse!

All of this AND the lickarse teacher sent home piles of candy and cookies so the child will be high on sugar in my home.

In case you’ve been Googling COVID-19 VACCINE SIDE EFFECTS: Yes, the vaccine is going to cause your immune related issues to flare (psoriasis, IC, fibromyalgia, neuropathy, etc.)

Your Googling has just been fruitful!

If you are like me and suffer from psoriasis and a host of other autoimmune related ailments (fibromyalgia, Hashimotos, neuropathy, interstitial cystitis), you have probably spent the past year scouring the web for information about how COVID-19 will impact your health. And like me, you have probably read plenty of articles about how little is known about the impact on your already miserable condition(s) but that the vaccine is generally safe and to get it as soon as it’s available to you.

You may have spoken with your dermatologist/neurologist/rheumatologist/endocrinologist and your primary care provider and been encouraged to get the vaccine because getting COVID-19 is certainly worse than any impact that the vaccine might incur.

I just got my second dose a week ago and I want to share that you will suffer a flare in your symptoms.

When I learned that I was fortunate enough to qualify for the vaccine because I am a home health care worker I made the choice to go for it and gain whatever protection I could. I have three young autistic kids and no family nearby. I needed to grab that appointment slot and saddle up for whatever bumpy ride might follow.

The first dose, I felt like I had the flu. I was exhausted and had chills. This lasted less than two days. I didn’t feel great after that, but, I never feel great. A week later, I got a stomach bug and that laid me flat for two days. Nothing on the web was saying vomiting and pooping were a side-effect of the vaccine. But now I’m thinking that the two may be linked.

What I had read was that the second dose was what really made you feel ill. Being the Type A, OCD nut job that I am, I prepared my household for Mama to be sick for days. I friggin mopped the floors, got food delivered, and had my bedside table set up with all of the survival supplies one needs for a full body seige of “flu-like symptoms”.

Let me just say that all the parts of my body that like to attack itself because they think they are a foreign entity have been attacking themselves. My hands, where my psoriasis is centered, have freaked out and each finger and both palms are inflamed and scaling. It’s painful and it’s gross.

My fatigue and fibro-fog (can’t think of that word….nope, still can’t think of it) are severe. And my myalgia and joint pain are worse. Let’s talk IC pain. Oooh, no, if you have it, you know what a flare up of that is like.

Was it worth it to get the vaccine? I’m going with “yes”. Am I also experiencing flares up and down my body? Oh, fuck yeah, I am.

These are the early days of vaccination and not a lot of research has been accumulated. Particularly among those with underlying conditions. Let me be the web hit that provides you with that first hand, pun intended and it stays, case study that the vaccine is running amok from my head to my toes. I’m hopeful that these unknown and under discussed side effects will wane over the next couple of weeks.

If I have gained immunity that will protect me and allow me to care for my autistic children, it’s all been worth it.

I know how validating it is to read someone else’s story about illness and chronic pain and feel like,

“Hey, she gets me! It’s not all in my head!”

I get you. It’s a real thing. Please get vaccinated anyway.

Be well!

Photo credit: https://unsplash.com/photos/mAGZNECMcUg?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink

Thank Goodness We’re Back on Dinosaurs: Autistic Obsessions Affect the Whole Family

When an autistic child gets obsessed or passionate about a topic, you had better pray you’re interested in learning every minute detail about that subject. Because that special child is going to want to talk, and talk, and talk about it. It’s just how they’re hardwired. And it’s how autistic obsessions suck in the whole family.

My eldest was three when he became enamored with dinosaurs. We learned together. I found that I could keep up with a preschooler’s capacity for knowledge. After about 40 species and as many factoids, though, my brain couldn’t retain any more information and just had to accept that he was right. Even at 4 or 5, I trusted that he knew that 65 million years ago a meteor hit the now Gulf of Mexico and obliterated much of life on Earth. Or that a certain beast was a Tarbosaurus and not an Allosaurus.

We had a great run of 5 years. We were watching BBC’s “Walking With Dinosaurs” when he was 4. We had read every book in the kid’s section of the the library and those in the surrounding towns by the age of 6. He had earned or had been gifted every dino related toy. Relatives were warned to only buy dinosaur themed presents. His room had dino decals on the wall and dinosaur bedding. He would only wear clothing that featured a dinosaur. His little brothers knew all about dinosaurs or at least, they were enamored with being a captive audience for big brother’s lessons. Because, he has always been a little professor.

You get the picture. Dinosaurs dominated our life. But…at least they were real.

Enter the dragon(s), namely, “How to Train Your Dragon”.

There were the movies: adorable. The Netflix television show: barely palatable. At least there was a dozen new books he could read. But, that’s pretty much it. OR SO YOU WOULD THINK!!!

Because there was also a video game! I would bleed from the ears, listening to all of the breeds and their strengths. You could battle these guys. And breed and hatch them! And there were toys, but not enough toys, ironically.

We endured two years of nothing but drawing dragons and reading about dragons and stepping on the collectable figures, and watching the shows and him asking me, “Mom? Which is your favorite kind of dragon?”

I don’t bloody know because I hate all of them!

No, no, I memorized a few names and would always say, “Whispering Death”. I mean, that’s a pretty fierce dragon. Given the choice, always pick Whispering Death because it’s a conversation stopper.

“Ok, Mom!”

Then, when I thought I couldn’t stand it another moment, we were onto Godzilla! I don’t really know how it happened but I’m blaming an in-app video. I made a poor parenting choice to let my 11 year old watch the 2019 movie, and we were burning up in our desire for all things Godzilla. Now, maybe if we lived in, I don’t know, JAPAN, it would be easier to satisfy Godzilla-mania. But after 6 months and a birthday, allowance money and Christmas, I think we’ve hit the end of Amazon.

I know there are more films, but having watched one, I realize just how many bombs, and missiles and guns and did I say nuclear bombs there are in them.

And then…like a strange Zephyr of Mattel origin, dinosaur toys have returned to dominate the land!

*Mother ululates*

Who cares if they’re hybrids? Who cares if I’m mostly hearing about how production of Jurassic World 3 has been pushed another year. At least we’re talking about REAL THINGS! “Real” as in derived from once living things, but I will take it.

Now, my brain has fogged and melted around the edges significantly in the 8 plus years since we were reading The Big Book of Big Dinosaurs. Motherhood and covid will do that. I forget what a Sarcosuchus looks like but I am so glad to see the bins upon bins of dinos emerging from storage to be played with!

My sweet boy may be on the cusp of adolescence, but autism has pushed that back a while. I go in to say Good-night, and his bed is filled with toys and there are fierce sounds of battle. If we have a moment alone, my child will ask, “Wanna talk about something?”


“You know that lawyer guy in Jurassic Park? I wish they sold him and that he came with a toilet!”

Sigh. Yup, buddy, that would be pretty funny!

There’s a Special Joy to Fridays Again!

I am not shy in my distain for distance learning. I am running in three directions, beholden to the school district’s schedule and rules, only they’re happening in my house! I mean, ok, I do bend/ignore their rules whenever I can, I won’t lie. And I take satisfaction in yelling about did you flush the toilet during science class. But I’m typically stressed out and exhausted by noon and that’s before I’ve done anything to manage the house.

Yes, I get way more hugs from my fellas now that they’re home, but I sorely miss the freedom of an empty house, something I had barely begun to enjoy due to one child’s school struggles and the youngest having only entered preschool.

When at least a couple kids were in school, the weekend felt like more work. No breaks and a heightened expectation on everyone’s part that we’d be “doing” something or going on an elaborate adventure.

The pandemic has actually made me enjoy the weekends again! No zoom, looser schedules, the kids spend more time playing with each other, and since we can’t really go anywhere, the pressure is off to have any fancy plans! It’s like weekends from my own 80s childhood.

“Go play outside!” or

“If I hear any fighting, you’re doing chores!”

We embrace the path less traveled these days.

Here’s a sweet picture of my Littlest on our random adventure to the local cemetery! We have no relatives there. The boys wanted to put flowers on the graves. And now the youngest is obsessed with the Stations of the Cross, something, as an atheist, I am ill-equipped to explain. We’ll dedicate a separate blog post to that! 

The Trump-ocalypse or January 6th

Just a quick post to offer you this limited opportunity to hitch your wagon to my anxiety star! I saw all of this Trump insanity playing out in my neurotic dreams, circa 2016.

It’s my witchy sight. And this stretches back well before covid. But to keep things contemporary, let just say if there has been a phase of covid panic, I had already been there for about 6 weeks.

Phantasmagoria: a sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in a dream.

It’s an awesome new word I just learned and I think it’s possibly the most accurate description of what’s happening re: The President.

In November, the long held breath of slightly more than half of the country was released in a cheer and people took to the streets!

“Biden is the next president!”

I was thinking, let’s not count our chickens yet. I was thinking, buy food, make sure we all have our medication, and yeah, Clorox and toilet paper, because I was flashing hard with visions of a civil war.

Well, the chickens aren’t yet counted and we’ve got acts of terrorism in D.C. People playing soldiers because they drank the Trump conspiracy Kool-Aid. And they have guns.

I feel a tweak less crazy to see my paranoia actualized on CNN. Less crazy and way, way more anxious.

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