The Triduum and Rabbit Scat

Waylon spied the stash of hot wheels cars for his Easter basket earlier in the week. It's my fault, really. They were in the back of the van, and he can smell hot wheels cars almost as well as he can smell chocolate, so I should have known better.
We have a tall cabinet in our master bath that we use as a fallout shelter for anything that we don't want Waylon to smell- and consequently eat- at 3am. Cookies for the kids school program, a birthday cake for a party the next day, also my tampons, incidentally. Although this cabinet is safe from Waylon, it is not safe from me- occasionally the stars align, and there is a box of 12 Star Crunch Little Debbie's waiting for tomorrow night's T-ball game my PMS induced hunger pains.

On Holy Thursday the cars moved from the back of the van to the fallout shelter. The sweet boy who did not put words together until he was in elementary school said "Presents? No presents till Christmas!" approximately 10 million times in one hour. In Waylon language, this phrase is roughly translated as "I know you've hidden my cars. When in the &@$! are you going to give me them?" Not today, buddy.

On Good Friday, when I picked Waylon up from therapy, I made sure to let him know we were not going home, we were going to Uncle Chris's house. (Because you can't be springing new things on him unless you want to meet Satan.)
On cue, he said "No presents till Uncle Christmas house?" ("Am I getting the #$%* cars today?")
Not today, buddy.
So he said, "Not toDAYYYY, not toDAYYYY" approximately 10 million times during the car ride. (Waylon language translation: "This is taking FOR-EV-ERRR".)

Later that evening, we set out our baskets just in case the Easter Bunny decided to come early. (I had to work at the hospital on Easter Day.) When the Easter Bunny went to check the baskets early Saturday morning, she stepped in puke. I'll give you a hint: it wasn't actually the Easter Bunny. Someone had been up and eaten approximately 45 Reese's and barfed them right in front of my fireplace. Also, the runny poo in the bathroom carpet was not characteristic of rabbit scat.
Also, it smelled like poo, not Reese's. (I had to check.)

The Easter Bunny came on Holy Saturday. Waylon found his cars. We colored eggs. He mutilated his basket.

 

 

Travis took the "day off" while I took the kids to Grandma's to color eggs- and that evening when I brought up how exhausted I was from the day, Trav said "Don't start with me- you get to go to work tomorrow." Touché.

My mom (my Simon of Cyrene), offered to keep Waylon and Lucy at her house during Easter Vigil Mass so we could just sit (and kneel and stand and sit). Bless her.

So on Easter Sunday, I went to work at 6am with the joy of Jesus Christ in my bones because He is risen! and There was no poo or puke to clean up! And also because I was enjoying my first cup of coffee in 40 days.

On Easter night I came home to this:

 

R.I.P. Easter basket.

Those #$%! cars though.

I hope this Easter season brings new life into your homes, new joy into your hearts, and the ability to see peace and serenity amidst the chaos of everyday happenings.

And I hope the Easter Bunny didn't leave scat in your bathroom.

Happy Easter, friends!

Paleoanthropology and laughter (yes for real)

Hi friends. 

While working the hospital one fine day, one of the cutest old men you've ever seen wanted me to read a story in January's National Geographic. It was about Ella Al-Shamahi- a paleoanthropologist who also does stand-up comedy. Her paleoanthropology gig is nothing to laugh about- she digs fossils in the Middle East to research Neanderthal evolution. Whoa.

She said:

"Some places where I research are quite dark. It's incredible therapy to find the funny in it. The stage is an escape. There's an entertainment component, but it's also very selfish. You're escaping from the formalities of life and data. You can be ridiculous. People let you be ridiculous because the places you take them can be very fun."

Did you read that? Wow. I hadn't previously realized the similarities between paleoanthropology and my life. (Although Waylon is *kind of* a Neanderthal... He prefers to be naked, dirty, and he only eats red meat.)

I think I'd like comedy to be the next stage in the evolution of how we present special needs parenting. I've said it once, and I'll say it again- if you are facing a mountain in life, if you can find a way to laugh, you can surpass it.

For the 3rd year, I am proud to participate in an amazingly hilarious and therapeutic comedy show/fundraiser called Evening with the Rents. It supports a very special summer camp for kids with special needs- Camp Encourage. And, um, well, it's tomorrow. 

I've been rehearsing for months, my lines are (mostly) memorized, my outfit is picked out, and dress rehearsal is tonight. It's go time. I promise you we've put together three hours of hilariously therapeutic comedy- all I need is for you to join me. Also a good BM would be nice so I can feel skinny on stage. 

Are you struggling? (Who isn't, really?) Join me. We'll laugh through it.

rents.brownpapertickets.com

Groupies

I told Travis a month ago that we were going as a family to the Catholic School's Week kick-off concert at the kids' school. Last year, he gladly stayed home with the baby. But the concert was so good! How could I convince him to go? I said, "Travis- it's like AC/DC was at our children's school. You can't miss it again."

I just really really really wanted to be able to go somewhere as a family. Do you ever feel like that?

But still, just before we left the house, I got the usual- "Why don't I just stay home with Waylon and Lucy? You can go with the other kids and have a good time. It would be so much easier that way."

Easier? Yes. Most definitely. But heck to the no, I said. I just really really really want to be able to go to this as a family. Am I repeating myself?
We did all the prep work– "Waylon, we are going to the big kids' school. There will be music. It will be loud." We packed the headphones. The iPad. We drove separately, just in case.

Turns out, the kid loves live concerts.

Who knew?

Specimen A: 

I was pretty sure he would trip and crash into their set. Props to the Mikey Needleman Band for not stopping and asking the stimming/spinning dude down it front to take it down a notch.

Specimen B: 

He danced with his sister. And she danced back. In front of her friends. Her body language said, "Yeah, this is my brother with autism. Isn't he awesome?" Per usual, that girl amazed me with her unselfish love for others, especially Waylon. She owned it.

Parents of kids with autism: don't be afraid to try new things. Go places. For every five or 10 or 15 or 20 times your kid melts down in public and you are thoroughly embarrassed, there will be one time they far exceed your expectations. And your love tank will overflow.

We are groupies.

every mother's dream

It was his 9th birthday last week and the boy we thought would never talk couldn't stop saying "HAPpy BOOday, HAPpy BOOday". This year, the year he was eight, he learned how to say his name, ("Way-yun") and how old he is was ("Ett" No Waylon, you're nine now! "Ett". Agggghhh). He even learned his birthday ("Decembuh Tenny-Sedden"). And he was so excited for Christmas, walking around the tree every night repeating "Pesents? No pesents til Kissmus!" 

I used to freak out about his birthday. I hated the number increasing with lightspeed each year while his developmental age crept along at a snail's pace. "He's growing up too fast" I'd say, so cliche on the outside, but panicking on the inside. Time is running out! He has so much to learn! Where will he live? Who will take care of him?

I laid all these feelings out at a support group meeting a couple of months ago. Most of the parents said they share these feelings too, but for the sake of their sanity, they have put these worries to rest. Live in the moment, they said. Enjoy it.

So, while I will never truly stop worrying about and planning for Waylon's future, on his ninth birthday I decided to enjoy it. And we had so. much. fun. From the look on his face when the piñata burst to his bashful face when we sang Happy Birthday, I could see how lucky I really am- because I have every mother's dream. While my other children are "growing up too fast", Waylon is not. He's growing up perfectly.

I wanted to get him the life size plush Mickey Mouse I saw in a Black Friday ad. Travis said, "It's almost his 9th birthday. You're not buying him a Mickey Mouse."

He would've totally loved that Mickey Mouse, almost as much as I would've loved snuggling him with it. But I must admit-
I think I've loved teaching this big guy how to play Xbox even more.