And now for something completely different...

I know.

It's been such a long time since I last posted on my blog, something I never thought would come to pass. And yet as the days stretched on it became harder and harder to post. Once again there are a thousand half-written posts in my queue, ten thousand in my head.

But today, finally, I have pushed through the quicksand to bring you....

A recipe.

Wait... What? Have I lost my mind and suddenly turned into another person?

Nope.

I know you're thinking "What about the end of summer and Ethan's camp and Jacob's camp and the annual family vacation in the Berkshires and my mother's birthday and back-to-school haircuts and back-to-school and the whole middle school transition thing and school bus nightmares and... and... and...?"

Well, yeah. I have all those stories, too. And maybe some of them will get to spill out here. But I can't keep going backwards, I can only slog forwards right now.

And I have to start somewhere, and so that's today...

And so here's my recipe for Banana-Cranberry-Panic Muffins:

Wake up at 5:30 AM

Try to clean up as much of the kitchen as possible, unloading the dishwasher and reloading it, making a neat pile in the sink of everything that doesn't fit in, so that there's room to wash the strawberries and fill the filtered water pitcher.

Wash the strawberries and fill the pitcher.

6:00 AM Wake up your autistic son for school, who is, thank goodness, in a very happy mood this morning, bouncing around and wanting to to talk to you about everything. Wonder if this is because you ran out of one of his medications and so he didn't get it yesterday.

Consider whether there is a viable trade off here -- he is definitely more hyper/bouncy/distractable. Yet also happier and more related, talking and pointing and wanting you involved in everything he is thinking and doing. Great eye contact.

Make note to call psychopharmacologist to discuss. Also his teachers to see if he drives them crazy today or not.

Get your son dressed, fed, packed-up and on the bus.

6:55 AM As you go over the morning schedule for you other son in your mind - early school day, as its the "Back-to-School-Meet-the-Class" breakfast in his homeroom this morning - PANIC as you realize that you are supposed to contribute baked goods to this breakfast and you forgot to buy anything.

Calculate that there is no way you can get to the store and back and still be on time today. Also understand that there is no time to pick stuff up "on the way" and that there is no great bagel & coffee place right around the corner from his new middle school like there was at his old elementary school. Silently curse change again.

Have a brilliant idea: it only takes 10 minutes to whip up muffins and they can bake while you get your son up/make his lunch/get him ready/get husband up/get yourself dressed.  And so maybe you'll be on time and with still-warm home-baked muffins in hand, and so his homeroom teacher will continue to like your son, and you will not fail the Mom-game today.

Remember you have some frozen over-ripe bananas, so banana muffins it is!  When you open up the freezer to get them, a bag of frozen cranberries falls out and misses your foot by and inch. Kismet! Banana-cranberry muffins then.

And begin.

<*> <*> <*>

As is usual with my cooking, I looked up a coupla-three recipes to see what the basic ratios were, what they had in common and any interesting variations, and then I winged it with what I had on hand.

We arrived (nearly) on time. The muffins were a big hit. Ethan said: "Mom the sourness of the cranberries goes great with the sweetness of the muffins!" And he ate two. Win!

And so here, finally, is the actual recipe:

Varda's Banana-Cranberry-Panic Muffins:
(you can skip the panic if you prefer)

2 cups whole wheat pastry flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 really ripe bananas, pulverized
2 eggs
1/2 cup milk - Buttermilk would be nice, too. Or almond/soy/rice milk if you want them dairy-free.
1/3 cup liquid shortening - I used coconut oil. You can use melted butter if you like.
1/2 cup sugar - white or brown or combo is fine. I used raw turbinado sugar.
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1 teaspoon real vanilla
1 cup cranberries

Mix dry ingredients together & set aside. (Most recipes say "sift" and you can if you want to. Me, I'm too lazy for that and besides, I lost my sifter two moves ago.)
Mix everything else except the cranberries together, well.
Fold the dry ingredients into the wet and stir until just combined (don't over-mix).
Stir in the cranberries.

Fill lined or greased muffin tins to just under the top.

Bake in 350 degree oven for approximately 25 minutes.
Note: I made full size muffins. You can make minis or a loaf if you want. Bake time for mini-muffins is probably10-15 minutes, for a small loaf I'm guessing 35-40. You'll figure it out.

NOTES:
When my bananas get over-ripe I just pop them in the freezer, skin and all. To use, I microwave for 30 seconds, peel off the skins, remove any yucky bits and then microwave for another minute or so in a bowl until completely thawed.

I used frozen cranberries that were a bit old and wrinkly - to restore them I just filled a bowl with hot water at the start and popped the berries in for the 5 minutes while I mixed the rest of the muffins up. When it was time to add them they were plump and thawed.

<*> <*> <*>

Hey, that was fun! Maybe more recipes with stories to follow... maybe not. No promises, but let's see what the future will hold.

(And its nice to be back.)

Back in the Swing

The mornings are cruel again. 5:45 does not come easily to me. Especially after such a long spate of respite: ten whole days of late risings. No bus to be met, lunches made, homework double checked, backpacks packed, sleepy children to be cajoled and scolded into hurry, hurry, hurrying through pajama shedding, clothing donning, teeth brushing, and breakfast wolfing.

I don't realize how much I adore our languidly paced mornings until they are gone, gone, gone. Children in pajamas until lunchtime or later (me too, some days, me too). Sigh.

Back in the grind now. 3 hours of my workday slogged through by 8:45. My workday which feels like 24 hours sometimes. The 24-7 that is parenting, even still when they are located elsewhere for 6 hours of that, because there is always the clean-up and the prep and the appointments to be made and the insurance companies to spend hours on the phone with because clearly my time could not possibly be valuable.

And then there are the phone calls to come pick them up from school because what was seemingly just cranky in the morning has turned into puking or fever by lunchtime. So all plans are scotched and I must be given over to being a lap, a pillow, the warm safe place my ill child needs to be curled up into. But thankfully not today.

My "to do" list would frighten even the most efficient and stalwart, and that is certainly not me, not even by a long shot. I can only pick and choose today, selecting the screamingly urgent and the seemingly doable to push up to the top, attempt to tackle. I promise myself to not start out the new year feeling failed, inadequate; to accept that I will only get do much done, that reading with my children is more important than a tidy house.

But we must have food, my mother must have her medications, the mountain of clean laundry must get sorted, drawered and shelved before my children wail that they have no underpants to wear.

I blink and it's time to meet Jake's bus home. Don't ask how much of the list I've gotten to, I don't want to talk about it.

Today, sitting on the sofa, munching his chips, Jake asked me "What did you do today when you were waiting for me, Mommy?" (meaning while he was at school). He's never asked anything at all like that and I was floored.

And even though he got bored with the answer before I was halfway through, still my heart sang with the question asked, with his knowing I am a separate person who does things he doesn't know about when I'm not with him, with his curiosity, his interest in the world outside himself. (Pffft to the notion of the autistic lacking a "theory of mind.")

It aroused this thing called hope that flutters its butterfly wings in my chest sometimes. It comes when he asks to see my face when I'm looking elsewhere, when he springs to my side to share something he's happy about (usually a win on his DS game but I'm not going to be picky), when he showers kisses up and down my arm like Gomez to Morticia and says "I love you Mommy" out of the blue.

I love you too, baby, I love you too.

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Morning Rites

The boys are sleepy this morning, waving me off like an annoying gnat when I come to rouse them, Jacob quietly at six and Ethan more noisily at seven. In this, too, they are separate and unequal, and it saddens me, one more drop in the bucket of disconnection that sits on my chest, heavy.

Jacob is still growling at everything that displeases him and there is much that displeases him about mornings. I want him to get undressed and he wants to pet the cat. I want him to get dressed and he wants to pet the cat. I want him to eat breakfast and he wants to pet the cat.

Jake is mad about his underwear again, having outgrown the brand he has worn since he was four and toilet trained. "I want puppies, I want basketballs, I want orange!" he yells, hitting his body in protest as I pull the boring solid grey underpants up over his sizable hips. And so I make a mental note of something to add to today's already overflowing "to do" list: find boys size XXL or mens size small briefs in bright colors with fun pictures on them.

I wish we had the luxury of time in the mornings, to take a long snuggle on the sofa and pet the cat to Jake's hearts content. But he is up too early already. I can't set the clock back any further and his bus is now coming ten minutes sooner for no reason other than DOE regulations suddenly being enforced.

So the mornings are a non-stop nudge fest from me, nearly every interaction an iteration of "Hurry, Jake" or "NOW, Jake!" All the fun and sweetness poured out of it.

I resist the urge to growl at the bus myself, as I see it pulling round the corner, lights already flashing. A quick kiss on his cheek, with the matron impatiently waiting to whisk him away, must sustain me for the rest of the day.

Entering the apartment again, divesting myself of the down coat thrown on over pajamas, I survey the kitchen carnage, prepare for round two. Another breakfast, another lunch, another tired boy to shake loose from his dreams.

"Hug me, Mama!" Ethan demands as I lean over him pulling the warm blanket away, hoping the shock of cold will do what my hand lightly tousling his hair and my voice sing songing "Wakey, wakey, school time, babe..." could not.

He's in a good mood, dancing around the apartment peeling off his PJs, putting on his clothes. Which means, of course, that they are strewn throughout.

Checking his homework once more as I place it in the folder, put together his backpack (intone for the thousandth time that this really is HIS job) I notice a question skipped, so a pencil is hastily procured, math dipped into briefly and then his nose is back in his book.

Ethan is at the very, very, very end of the last book of the Harry Potter series and he just can't get done soon enough. Mysteries are being revealed; all those secrets he'd attempted to wheedle out of me for the past two months, and I'd blithely answered "Read the books you'll find out at the end" are finally within his grasp.

Watching him read and eat, curled up in the armchair as I bustle about packing up his lunch, picking up Jake's pajamas, I am struck again by how much he looks like me at that same age.

I take a mind's snapshot of him ("Zen photos" we used to call those in my family) knowing that soon he will lengthen, the angles of his face sharpen and a man will emerge from this boy-child.

But not quite yet.

He dons sneakers and jacket right on time, with nary a nag. Book stowed in backpack for reading at school, basketball retrieved and tucked under his arm, we set off.

Walking together down our quiet morning street, he gleefully dribbles the ball a bit, showing off his latest moves; then stops, slips his hand into mine.

"You're the best mother, ever." I try not to beam too much. "Well, for me that is. You wouldn't be a good mother for him." he adds, pointing to a dog being walked in our direction.

"And you're the son for me" I tell him, "You're the son for me."

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Five days of empty nest

At camp welcoming ceremony with Jake

Well, the boys are both at camp and we haven't gotten a phone call to come scoop them up yet, so I've got my fingers crossed that nobody gets injured and the phone call never comes, and this experiment will turn out to have been a whopping success.

I'm still stunned, and reeling. Delighted by the freedom and missing them fierce, all at the same time.

I got home yesterday at about 6 pm, after driving Jake up to camp in the Berkshires on Sunday and then staying overnight up there with friends, not wanting to do the round trip all in one day.

I was supposed to leave in the morning, but I was having so much fun being a grown-up, socializing as me and not as "mom," I stayed through lunch. It was the most vacation-like 24 hours I'd had all summer, and it was glorious.

Last night my husband had plans to go out to dinner with friends and I spontaneously called up a dear friend and had dinner with her, myself. Did you catch that word "spontaneously"? Been missing from my vocabulary for, well, nine years now.

Walking out the door yesterday evening without making plans for children, hiring a sitter, calculating how long to stay out (the "is the extra hour of fun worth the extra hour of sitter" quotient)? Glorious. And strange.

Strolling with my husband down Riverside Drive on our way to our respective dinners, I was positively giddy.

But today, I've felt a little un-moored all day. "Mom" is so at the core of my identity, I don't know who I am if I'm not caring for or planning for the care of little ones.

Even when I was across the country at BlogHer, I was still calling, getting texts, still the one "in charge" of arrangements, even if the execution of them was in other hands.  I had even gotten a 3:30 AM call from my husband one morning, California time, needing to know where to find the boys' lunch boxes. (Scared the bejeesus out of my roomies, too.)

But this? This is hand them over and then pick them up. Totally out of my hands. Totally unprecedented.

But the instincts, they don't just go away, even when the brain says "stop."

Tonight at about 6 pm, at the time when even if the boys had been out and about all day they would surely be home and needing to be fed, I was jumpy. I just couldn't shake the feeling that I needed to be doing SOMETHING for SOMEONE. Nope.

I am going to try my hardest to enjoy my last 2 days of freedom. I have a lot to do, busy, busy days planned, but I will be sleeping in Wednesday and Thursday. 6 AM wake-ups, 7 days a week for years on end has been brutal.

And I'm going to try to quench the little back-of the-mind voices that are worrying about my boys. Especially Jake who seemed so barely ready for this, about whom I went back and forth, and back and forth before deciding to go through with it.

It's so hard with him, to know how much he actually understands about what is going on around him. I have often both under- AND over- estimated his comprehension of situations.

I'd been doing my best to prepare him: writing social stories, reading Arthur Goes to Camp together. The whole ride up I talked about how long a week was, reminded him I'd be leaving him but would definitely, no matter what, be back to pick him up the next Sunday.

We had arrived at camp just in time for the opening ceremony, and as we sat together through the songs and heartfelt, cheery welcomes, Jake turned to me every few minutes and asked "Are you leaving now, Mom?" So, yeah, I guess that part had sunk in.

You know you're at ASD camp when someone stands in front of the group to introduce himself "Hi, I'm Dan..." and a voice from the peanut gallery pipes up "You're short!" Luckily Dan had a sense of humor and we all laughed.

You also know you're at a special needs camp when there are large kids screaming and crying and carrying on about separating from their parents. My heart went out to those kids and moms while I secretly thanked every supreme being I'd ever heard of that it wasn't MY kid.

Jake was amazing, giving me a warm hug and kiss and saying goodbye... and then going off with the group, like he did that every day. He never ceases to surprise me.

Ethan was nervous about fitting in, but as he's at camp with three good friends, I'm sure he's having a great time. And even if he's miserable, it's only five days, right?

On Friday morning I leave early (6 AM wake-up again. SIGH.) to go fetch Ethan. And he'll have a day with me, Jacob-free, which should please him immensely. And then Sunday we drive up to get Jake, and then it's full-time family time once again. For the two more weeks until school begins.

The moment I see their faces once again, I know how much I've missed them will come flooding over me, and I'll try not to embarrass them too much with my tears and kisses.

Within hours of their being home, I know these five child-free days will seem like a fever dream, a distant memory... like lazy Sunday mornings, or having a waist.

But for now I'm going to try to lay the strangeness and anxieties aside, and milk this time dry. Go to the movies - spontaneously! Eat something Ethan loves - and NOT have to share it with him. Shout something to my husband from one room to the next in the late evening and not worry about waking a sleeping child. Sleep naked. Step out at midnight, just to look at the moon and the stars.

Glorious.



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It's (almost) my Birthday, and I'll post if I want to

My birthday is tomorrow, the 10th, but as I'm posting this so late at night, well, by the time you read it, it most certainly WILL be my birthday.

I can't really put up a birthday post on the 10th because that's my Hopeful Parents posting day, so all you will find on the 10th is my jumper post leading you to read me on the Hopeful Parents site. (Note to self: WRITE the damn HP post already, OK?)

And so I am posting though I don't have much to say. Or rather I have so much to say that it is an amorphous swirl in my brain, not coalescing into anything near brilliance anytime soon. And so I'm breaking all the rules here. Handing you a ruminating ramble today. Because it's (nearly) my birthday and I can do what I want to, right?

I am SUPPOSED to put up my fabu BlogHer11 recap post by today, or certainly tomorrow (not gonna happen) and I have also been told it is imperative to have something really wonderful, a strong post I'd prepared in advance to slap up on the old blog to wow folks that I met at the conference who are coming by to visit for the first time (also, clearly not happening).

What I am, mostly, right now, is a (by the time you're reading tihs) 51 year-old woman who is tired. Really really tired. Bone weary tired.

The BlogHer conference was wonderful and strange and so different from my day-to-day existance that now that I'm back in the thick of things it feels like a dream. One of those powerful dreams you mull over the next day in your waking state and want to write down the details of upon awakening so as not to lose the lessons therein; but a dream, nonetheless.

For four days I didn't have to think about what other people were wearing or eating or their bathroom habits. OK, maybe I had to THINK about it, as I did have 2 (wonderful) roommates who DID want me to eat with them and consult on outfits and we DID have to negotiate our showers so as to all be able to be on time. But I wasn't RESPONSIBLE for any of that for anyone but me.

So for four days I was off the hook of mothering responsibilities. And It. Was. Glorious. I could have been at the worst conference in the world, and I would have still been in heaven. But instead I was at a pretty terrific one. With some great people. In San Diego. California. On the West Coast. For the first time in nine years.

I love being a mother. I wouldn't trade that job in for anything. But it IS relentless and wearing me out sometimes. Especially the whole autism thing. I needed a break. And I didn't know how much I needed a break until I had one.

The problem is, this was a very busy, very intense break. And while it cleared my mind, it was four days of WORK in so many ways. Four days of being "on" all the time.

And so I came back needing a bit of rest, some down time, and instead found myself thrown back into full time mothering, as Ethan was already DONE with camp, and Jake's summer school ended with a half day today. And there is now a MONTH before the kids go back to school.

Yes, I said a month, because New York City has not fallen into lockstep with most of the rest of the nation and started sometime in August. A few days after Labor day it is then.

We'll be making the most of it, having fun in the city, trying to escape as often as we can. But still, looking down the barrel of a whole month is daunting. Especially when the kids don't get along. And they don't.

But I don't want to end this post on a whine, on a complaint, on the downside.

So I will say this: 51 years on this planet and most days I am still happy to greet the new day, eager to discover what it has in store for me.

I want my life to be like the Tardis, bigger on the inside, with ever expanding rooms for whatever I need. Like in one of those wonderful dreams where you go through a passageway to discover a whole new wing in your apartment you hadn't know existed before.

Some doors potentially opened at this conference, and I am looking forward to stepping through, walking into new territory, reclaiming parts of myself that are more than "just" Mom.

Because 51 is not too old to learn new tricks and I've got years ahead of me (hopefully) to dance on into. Anybody want to Rumba?



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Jakey Vitamins

The thing is, if every life is full of ups and downs, life with special needs children is just... more so.

In every way.

There are so many aspects to it that drag me down, made me cry, bring me to my knees. So it's important to look for, focus on, and magnify the moments of light and buoyancy; the little things that lift me up, keep me afloat, allow me to just get on with it. Because I would rather laugh than cry, any day.

This morning I had one of those lightening moments. Not a big laugh-out-loud funny, more on the order of a tiny rise of the corners of my mouth and heart. But all those tiny bubbles? Aren't they what make champagne so delightful?

As I was rushing encouraging Jake through his usual get-ready-for-school routine this morning, I was reminded that my eight year-old son, my Jacob? He has a mob name.

He's Jakey Vitamins, and don't mess with him.

This came about because of the unique configuration of our small apartment: we don't have a dining room and we don't have an eat-in kitchen. The dining table is in a corner of our living room, the corner farthest away from the kitchen, which is typical NYC: a long, narrow galley.

Jacob is a "mid-high functioning" kid on the autism spectrum. What that translates into is that he is capable of being independent in his morning routine. Sort of.

Meaning: with LOTS of coaching and reminders he can do most things for himself. With LOTS of coaching, reminders and nudging to stay focused, that is. And a quick mom-check that his underwear is not on backwards. Again.

Also, in the mornings, time is of the essence. Jake gets up at 6:00, his bus comes at 6:45. No lollygagging allowed. With the kitchen and the dining table so distant, and with Jake & Ethan's lunches to be packed and Ethan's breakfast to be made while Jake is eating his breakfast, the coaching inevitably needs to happen somewhat long distance.

Translation: Me, yelling from the kitchen towards the living room: "Jakey, Pants!" "Jake - TWO shoes!" "Jacob! EAT!"  This short form is based on the theory that reminders should be kept simple: name plus one word - verb or noun - that best jogs the memory and focuses the brain.

One particular morning my husband was actually up early and at the computer in the alcove off the kitchen (aka his office) while this was going on. After about my third bellow of "Jakey! Vitamins!" he chimed in: "You know honey, I think that's his mob name."

Me (distracted by toaster oven and microwave timers going off simultaneously): "What?!?!?"

Husband: "When you said just now, I thought -- Hey that sounds like a typical mob nickname, like 'Tony Bagels' or 'Vinny Carwash.'  'Jakey Vitamins' -- it's got as nice ring to it, don't you think?"

And thus Jakey Vitamins, my son's mobbed-up alter ego was born. 

And so now when I call that out to him - "Jakey! Vitamins!" - (many, many, many times each morning) I play this back in my mind and makes me smile; helps me to not be so annoyed.

Jakey Vitamins. Don't mess with him. Or he and his gang -- Blue Bear, Curious George and SpongeBob SquarePants -- will have to come show you who's boss (of the big hugs).

@@@@@@@

Also, if you have another 3 minutes? (And even if you don't, you should *make* 3 minutes free for this.)  Click on over to Stark Raving, Mad, Mommy, and read today's post:  Top Ten Things You Should (and Shouldn't) Say to The Parent of an Autistic Child.

She hits the nail on the head in that perfect combination of laughter and "Ouch!"

Also? I'm now linking up this post to Maxabella's

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Not Today

I had a deep, thoughtful post half-written for today.

I had a plan: I was going to finish it up, polish it up and send it out into the world mid-day while my husband took the boys off to see the supposedly execrable but male-bonding worthy "Green Hornet" movie (I hear many things blow up for absolutely no reason).

But this is not to be.

At 5:55 this morning Ethan tiptoed into my room.  His stomach was hurting him, and he was feeling really crappy again.  He didn't quite throw up, but almost.

And?  As as added bonus?  All the commotion woke up his brother, Jacob, too.

And you know how well they get along.

And Jacob this morning is in a wonderful, joyous bouncy mood.  Which means he literally will not stop talking.

Not even for 15 seconds.

About the same things: Batman and the upcoming movie schedule.

Since 6 AM.

And when Ethan yells at Jacob to "just. shut. up!" I scold him.

But in my head?  I'm yelling it, too.  And then feeling guilty.

Sigh.

And?  Yesterday was my first day really back in the world.  I took Ethan to school in the morning.  I went to the doctor for my post-surgical check-up appointment.

(He removed the wound dressing, I got to see the stitches in my belly button. Yes I still have one. Allayed my fears that had sprung up when I read an account of a laproscopy gone terribly wrong with the poor woman ending up with a navel-less belly like a classic Barbie.)

I even actually went on a date with my husband for the first time in a month.  We kept it short and simple.  I figured sitting in a movie theater was pretty much the same as sitting on my sofa.  So we saw True Grit.  Really enjoyed it.

But by the end?  I was really hurting.  I'd conveniently forgotten that I don't actually SIT on the sofa, I LIE on it.  And sitting up engages the abdominal muscles.  Two hours of that?  Too long for me right now.  Damn.

Once again I'd let my ambitions get the better of me.  Feeling a little better didn't mean all better.  And today I'm paying the price for over-doing it yesterday.

And yes, I have a sense of perspective.  I know these are small bumps in the road, minor disturbances.

My husband will take Jake to the movies.

And Ethan may perk up later today, feel better and go off to his scheduled play-date with his best friend while my husband takes Jake off to his beloved basketball program.

But I also know that what I will be doing if I get a moment to myself is sleeping, being horizontal, non-abdominal-muscle-engagingly prone.

Healing my body.  Not writing.

Another day.

Not this one. 

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Laughing beats the alternative

This morning I had coffee with a friend after we dropped our kids off at school.  I should have gone right home and done the 10,000 things on my un-done to-do list, but this had been one of those mornings.

Up too late followed by up too early.  My morning Twitter stream reflected this:

 

So, clearly, I needed the coffee and the friendship to get my morning turned around.

My friend, in turn, really needed to talk to someone about another friendship of hers which was hitting a rough patch. And, somehow, of all the people in her life, I am the one who has a direct yet separate connection to this other person, will understand where her frustrations are coming from, and also why she values this friend so deeply.  So we talked for a while, and strategized, and sighed big sighs.  Because this friendship stuff?  While wonderful?  Can also be really hard.

And then, this morning, I started to talk about Jacob and how he's doing.  And for some reason, this morning, something gathered momentum and came together in my brain that I had never let coalesce before, and I was crying and blurting out my fears for Jacob's future.

At this point, although things are far from certain, there is growing in me the gnawing fear that Jake will never be able to live completely independently, will always need some sort of care, a custodian to watch out for him for the rest of his life.  And that shit just tears me apart.

Because at ages 4, 5, 6?  The future is wide open.  We were still thinking we might find the magic hat trick that would rapidly pull Jacob together.   Not a "cure", not a miracle; we were under no illusions that Jake will suddenly fall off the autism spectrum and become "normal" (whatever THAT is).  But some kids I had known since Jake was little, who seemed much more messed up than he was then, have had these rapid turnarounds where they are now merely quirky and odd.  They are now kids who are socially "off" but still in the realm of regular.

They can go into regular classrooms with a bit of help, they are now like the kids we called "nerds" back in my day.  But they will clearly be able to navigate some sort of life for themselves as adults, with jobs (likely in the computer industry).  They will be part of the growing high-functioning Autism/Aspergers community; they will have their own place to fit in.

Jacob on the other hand?  At eight?  Is a lovely, loving boy, making slow, gradual, steady progress.  He is a boy who can talk, but not yet carry on a real conversation.   A boy who still prefers to meow, and growl; who struggles to find the right words.

Jacob is still so often and easily baffled by the world and the expectations of others in it.   And to learn and stay focused?  He needs a lot of support.  Someone right at his elbow keeping his attention on where it needs to be.  And that's not changing much.  And I don't know if it ever will.   I hope so, but I just don't know.

And I think in how few years he will be be a big boy, a teenager, an adult.  Blink, blink.  And I am afraid.  And I cried.

And then, because we so needed to, we laughed until we snorted our lattes out our noses.

I had pulled out my Droid and showed my friend the website I had found last night, that one that had my husband calling out from the other room wondering if I were all right or having an attack of some sort.

The website is called Damn You Auto Correct!  and it's a "reality" humor site, like Sh*t My Kids Ruined and Cake Wrecks.  In this case, people copy and send in texted conversations that have gone horribly wrong because the typing auto-correct feature on iPhones (and other devices like them) has made a baaad, baaad guess and changed an intended word or phrase into something... more interesting.

And often?  Rather obscene.  Or disgusting, or humiliating, or disturbing.

But always?  Utterly hilarious.

Latte snorting hilarious.  Hyena laugh hilarious.  Give yourself the hiccups hilarious.  OK, you get my point.

The funniest are (of course) the filthiest, and I'm not going to share those with you here, keeping some small semblance of decorum on this blog.  But I'm notifying you they are there, don't go there if you don't want to see that.  But if you do?  Please go and snort away.

Also?  Do not be drinking anything when you go to this site.  You have been warned.  I will NOT be held responsible for your messed up computer/smartphone/iPad/husband if you spit-take all over it/him.

Here are a few choice examples that had my friend and I sprawled across the table trying to compose ourselves and happily ignoring the questioning stares of the other coffee shop patrons as we brayed away and used up all our napkins wiping off the laughter tears:

Or this one:

I like the twist in this one:

OK, this is truly 8 year-old boy humor.  But also?  Funny.

And I thought it was bad when my phone turns "Ethan" into "Ethanol":

Here's one that's actually completely clean, yet surprisingly still funny:

But, finally, I think this one is truly my favorite:

See?  So the next time you are getting all scowly at life?  Go there and gleefully waste a few minutes. It will cheer you right up.  Especially if you're also having coffee with a good friend.