Funny Little Snowflakes

Funny Little Snowflakes

There’s something magical about the conversations of children - often strange, nonsensical and hilarious, sometimes touching and oddly insightful. I treasure these conversations that float around my home like funny little snowflakes.

Sometimes I’m a part of the dialogue. Like when Lucy, stark naked and digging through a mountain of laundry on my bed for something to wear one morning, told me, “Mommy, you should fall in love and get married so that your husband could move in here and do half of this laundry.” Thanks for the tip, Lu – I’ll get right on that. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that if I wanted a partner who would do half the laundry, I’d probably need to look for a wife.

Sometimes the conversations are overheard. Recently I heard Ben administer a spelling test to Lucy, who is particularly fond of playing school these days. The words were all over the map and many were far too difficult for a first grader, but the sentences he used when administering the test were priceless:

• JOB – Get out there and get a JOB.
• MEMORY – My uncle suffers from short-term MEMORY loss.
• FIST – I raised my FIST and shouted “You’re on!”
• BULGARIA – (Seriously? No sentence required.)

But I think I love the random, overheard snippets of conversations the most.

• Ben at bedtime one night: “Lucy, it’s inappropriate to brush your teeth naked.”

• Several days later, again at bedtime, he told Lucy to “quit it”. When she asked, “What am I doing?” Ben replied, “You’re shaking your booty and it’s slowing me down.”

(No nakedness or booty-shaking during teeth-brushing in the Heagler House, please.)

• Lucy at breakfast one morning, to no one in particular: “Do you want to hear my accent? Wait. I have to chew.”

• And to Ben while they were playing one day recently, “Never mind,” followed by a long, silent pause. And then, “Are you never-minding?”

Funny, little snowflakes floating around the Heagler House, and yours too, I’m certain. Each one unique, each one surprising, funny, touching, poignant, or even sad. Each one a treasure in a funny, little way.

Thankful for Much

Tonight I hauled a 32 “ wide x 20” tall x 5 feet long duffel bag containing my artificial Christmas tree through a 20” wide by 46” tall, Keebler-Elf-sized door leading to the attic in Ben’s room. As is our tradition, the kids set up lawn chairs, grabbed a cold drink and a candy cane, put on some holiday music and sat back to enjoy the spectacle. One year, I’ll have someone film me performing this feat, set it to music, post it on YouTube and let you watch it endlessly throughout the season whenever you need a pick-me-up. It would be entertainment for the whole family - it certainly is for mine.

It’s a little early for the Christmas tree, I’ll admit, but I wanted to make my Thanksgiving morning with the kids special. This year the kids are spending the holiday and the entire weekend with their dad. In our five divorced years, this will only be the second time I’ll not be with the kids for Thanksgiving dinner. In the past, when dad had the kids, they were invited to whatever dinner I was attending (or hosting) and I always ended up spending Thanksgiving with them. This year, however, the kids will be having dinner with their dad at his new girlfriend’s house and I will not get to see them. Consequently, this Thanksgiving feels a little odd (and admittedly, a little sad) to me.

I asked Ben & Lucy’s dad if they could stay with me until noon so that we could have our own Thanksgiving celebration. He graciously agreed and I planned what I hope will be a great holiday morning for us. The agenda includes: the arrival of Harry Harold (our Elf on the Shelf), cinnamon rolls from a can with gobs of frosting, hot chocolate for them, mimosas and coffee for me, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and decorating the Christmas tree.

No turkey, no dressing, no huge gathering of family and friends. Just the three of us, doing what we do, having fun, and being thankful for so much, but mostly for each other. Sounds just about perfect to me.

Going Southern

The kids and I regularly participate in a playgroup/wine club that has been going on for more than eight years. Some may question the compatibility of the two activities, but I stand by the combination and argue that the wine makes the children far more palatable.

During one such playgroup/wine club last summer, I caught the boys (the sweet angels pictured above) attempting to throw balls over the back wall of my yard into the semi-busy street above. Naturally, I marched outside and let loose a litany on those poor, unsuspecting boys. I ranted convincingly about the dangers of disrupting traffic, the fact that any balls thrown into the street would be lost to them forever, and generally about the reign of pissed-off-mom terror they would be forced to endure if I saw them try it again. Finished off, like a cherry on an ice-cream sundae, with a reminder that I could, most assuredly, see them even when they thought I couldn't. (Hmph.)

My good friend and fellow Boozey Mommy, Gretchen Reimbold, stood next to me with her hands on her hips through my whole tirade in the standard And-That-Goes-Double-For-Me pose all moms adopt when another mom is schooling a group of kids. When I was done, she looked directly at her child and said "Ben Reimbold, what did Aunt Lori just say?"

Fully expecting "She said not to throw balls in the street" in that bored, surly, sing-songy voice kids use when they’re in trouble, I was surprised when Ben Reimbold answered, "She said y'all.” Gretchen followed with "And what does it mean when Aunt Lori goes Southern?" Ben Reimbold looked at the ground, kicked the dirt, and said quietly, "It means she's mad."

I guess I made my point because no one attempted to throw balls in the street for the rest of the night. Apparently I'm quite Southern when I'm good 'n' pissed off. Let that be a lesson to ya... (all).

Chill

I have a tray on my bedside table that holds all my crystals, a very special rock from Ireland, a fake jewel that fell off a wand given to me by one of my best friends, a tiny “friend” charm from a necklace I share with my soul-sisters and a small slip of paper on which the word “chill” is written.

I found the paper in the home of my dear friend, Linda, when I was in Houston for her Halloween party this year. It was written by her daughter, Addie (pictured here with Lucy), in preparation for a spelling test. Something about that little slip of paper sitting in a jumble of pens, paper clips, school permission slips and phone chargers on Linda’s kitchen counter touched me and I asked Linda if I could have it. I stuck it in my pocket and brought it home with me to Seattle and it’s been on my tray with my other treasures ever since.

Today while I was drying my hair and putting on my makeup, Lucy was loitering in my bedroom, right outside my bathroom door as she often does. I glanced out at her and saw that she was writing on the back of Addie’s slip of paper in Sharpie and that it had bled through to the other side, pretty much obliterating Addie’s writing.

I know it shouldn’t have mattered, but I was disappointed to see it ruined. Though I tried to hide it, Lucy caught the look on my face and immediately started to tear up. I assured her I wasn’t mad. I told her it was my fault for not fully explaining to her how important the items on the tray are to me. I told her I was certain it looked just like any other paper I’m always encouraging them to turn over and use again. Still, she felt terrible.

Lucy came down from her room about half an hour after I left her at bedtime tonight. She asked for a gift bag, picked out the one she wanted and headed back to her room. A few minutes later, she returned with the heart-printed gift bag and handed it to me. “This is my apology for ruining your paper, mommy.” Five slips of paper. Dream Big. Live Happy. Love. Life is Good. And, of course… Chill.

Apology accepted, Lu.

The Land of Crappy Toys

Tonight when Lucy told our guest she would get her baby something to play with from The Land of Crappy Toys, my guest’s eyes widened, her eyebrows went up and her mouth even formed a tiny, little “o”. Maybe I should teach my kids a different name for that cabinet in the living room.

Whatever you choose to call it, you have that place in your house, right? The place where all the random toys collect? Mine is a cabinet in the bottom of a bookshelf in my living room. An quick inventory tells me that we have a slinky, magic 8-ball, plastic spinning top, three small blow-up “beach balls” from Pump-it-Up parties, countless Happy Meal toys, a couple of jump ropes, a yoyo, a selection of Hot Wheels cars and roughly a dozen super balls. When the cabinet begins to overflow, we donate anything that's worth a damn, throw the rest away and start our collection anew. It’s not a perfect system, I’ll admit, and I honestly do make an effort to not collect these types of cheap, disposable toys, but still they accumulate. So, as is our custom in the Heagler house, we give it a snappy name and learn to live with it.

After our guests had gone, Lucy noticed they had left a toy behind. I started to take it from her, but she said “that’s OK, mommy, I’ll just put it in The Land of Things Belonging to Other People” (a shelf in our coat closet with Lola’s socks, Bella’s sweatshirt, a hello Kitty watch belonging to god-knows-who, Mary Crandell’s tupperwear and now… Keaton’s ball). You have that place in your house too, right?

The Sarcastic Bitch School of Parenting

It is difficult for autistic kids to understand sarcastic humor. Grasping the nuances of sarcasm requires the ability to interpret pretty complicated social cues, which is simply not the strong suit of the autistic brain. Is this the Universe’s idea of a cruel joke? Giving an autistic kid to a woman who can’t make it a day without sarcasm, who has a hard time being remotely funny without its use? One might think so. Or maybe it was a challenge.

As it so often does, the sound of my children fighting had driven me to my breaking point recently. What is it about the constant hum of their discourse that is approximately equal to the annoyance I would feel if the Teletubbies were scratching their fingernails down a blackboard, blaring a Hannah Montana song while a faucet dripped in the background? (Do Teletubbies have fingernails?) Oh, you get the point - it’s evil. Pure evil.

This particular day, the sarcastic bitch in me kicked into overdrive and I told those children that the sound of their fighting was making me want to jab a pencil in my ear, rupturing my eardrum and forever silencing the sounds of their petty squabbles. I’m certain I also threw in a “y’all” or two and at least one “simmer down” for effect as I am known to do when I’m good and irritated. I thought the southern-ness of the rant would get their attention and the disturbing visual would stop them in their tracks for a moment or two of blissful silence. Instead, they stopped, gaped at me open-mouthed and then burst out laughing so hard they rolled on the floor, hugging themselves while tears rolled down their cheeks. It was at that moment I realized my autistic child fully appreciated sarcastic humor, at least when delivered by his mom (a “with-honors” graduate of The Sarcastic Bitch School of Parenting).

In the autism world, acquiring new social skills is a slow process. Ben’s very literal brain, recognizing that not only was my rant not at all literal, but also that it was funny, is a huge step. Generalizing that skill “across settings” (as we say in the autism world) would be the Holy Grail. If Ben could recognize your sarcasm, that would be even better. So, next time you see him, give him a try.

I am one sarcastic bitch raising an autistic kid with all the humor I can muster (sarcastic and otherwise). If giving me this particular kid was a challenge, Universe, I have one thing to say to you… how do you like me now?

We're the Heaglers

A few months ago Ben announced that the bacon I cooked with his Saturday morning breakfast was the perfect degree of floppiness. At the end of that day, it occurred to me that (as I suspected it might be) perfectly floppy bacon had been my greatest achievement that day. Sometimes it’s the little things.

Perfectly Floppy Bacon and Other Impressive Feats will be a glimpse of Heagler Family life – a place where I don’t have to reduce my musings to a Facebook status containing 420 characters or less or a Note than can only be viewed by my Facebook friends. To those of you who encouraged me to do this, I hope I won’t let you down and I hope you’ll never be sorry you said this was a good idea. Be careful what you wish for!

If there’s anyone out there reading who doesn’t know us, read on and come back often. We'll be old friends before you know it.

Perfectly Floppy Bacon and Other Impressive Feats will be about messages written in the dust on my end-tables, raising kids and drinking (a lot of) wine. About “going Southern”, my beloved Boozey Mommies, the horrors of dating as a 40+-year-old single mom, trying on hats, the rocks in my pockets, pick-me-up hugs and never-minding. It will be about tough love, hope, lots and lots of laughter and maybe a little inspiration along the way. And it will sometimes be about autism and its impact on our family.

Let me know what you think. Tell me if you like it and please tell me when I get it wrong. Thanks for reading. Cheers!