Inheritance

I love that the dudes have inherited things from my persona, even though we are not blood related.  Big Man inherited daddy's shyness, and Little Man inherited mommy's ability to attract friendship wherever she goes.  They may have their father's beautiful eyes and their mother's gorgeous hair, but a lot of their sense of humor is all me.  Big Man is downstairs running in circles and screaming, "I'm running around like a crazy person!!!"  That's MY influence.  *puffs chest proudly*

In about 28 weeks or so I will have a little one that WILL look like me, though.  One that will call me "Mommy" instead of "Karen".  Maybe.  It's likely that the little one will be confused, as everyone in the house calls me "Karen," so that may stick with him or her, too.  That would hurt, seeing as I pushed that watermelon outta a peach.  I'll be like that Mindy cartoon on Animaniacs, where she just calls her mom "Lady" all of the time.  I bet it's funnier when you're watching it on TV.

I got off topic.  Shocking.  Ok, HERE'S the 8-week picture of the bot.

He/She has little arms and legs :)  That was four weeks ago.  Of course, you can't tell if he's got my features or Eric's, yet.  I stare at the picture and hope she gets Eric's perfect skin and lovely blue eyes and my little ears and pretty hair.  I stare at the picture, and I hope he gets Eric's masculinity and brain power and my determination and grace.

I stare at this picture and ask myself if I've ruined her life by conceiving her with my maybe-broken-a-little-bit genes and adding my nobody-knows-if-they're-messed-up chromosomes and pumping her full of my science-can't-figure-out-if-this-causes-it blood.  Is he doomed to a life of training, therapy, doctors and medications?  Are we?  Will my high-functioning Asperger's mutate into her low-functioning autism? Will his big brothers be defending him in school and at the park and in Kroger for the rest of their lives?

Will he or she live a full life anyway?  I do know that answer.  Absolutely.  This bot is loved.  Unconditionally.

I'm glad I don't have jowls

I'm going to make the first installment of LuLunacy a picture book, I think.  Just to get the juices flowing.

The end.

It's official...

I've got the senior eff-its.  I graduate in six weeks.  SIX WEEKS!!!  Totally excited to the max.  Except I won't graduate at all if I don't finish these four papers that are due in that time as well.  Er....the first one is due Tuesday.  As in, four days from now.  Is it done?  I assure you it is not!  How close to done is it, you ask?  Still in the note-taking stage.  But, Karen, shouldn't you be doing that NOW, on your last quiet day before the dudes are home all weekend being all noisy and Skywalkeresque?  Why are you, instead, blogging and playing on Facebook and shopping for maternity swimwear?  BECAUSE I'M ALL ABOUT "EFF IT!" I'M A SENIOR!  That's why.  I better get my tush moving, though, or you'll all be reading this blog next semester thinking to yourselves, "Geeeeeez, why is she STILL whining about being a senior?"

Ah, heck, I just broke a nail grabbing a book out of my backpack.  See?  SEE?!?!?  This is what happens when I start to do the work.  Broken nails.  That's okay, though, because it's the stupid "buffed" nail of doom that is not supposed to be there.  Some total Summer's Eve in the mall at one of those stupid kiosks that sells Dead Sea salts and other beauty products grabbed me and took my nail polish off of my thumb without my permission.  WTF, T?!?  I was walking by.  He tried to hand me a free sample.  I said, "No, thanks" and kept walking.  I was on a mission!  A mission to...er...well, not do this paper and hang out in the mall instead.  Anyway, I kept walking, and he pointed to my chest and said, "Oooh, can I ask you a question?"  I assumed he wanted to know if my tattoo hurt (the answer is always, yes.  There were needles grinding into my flesh.  It effing hurt.)  So, I stopped and said, "What?"  Big mistake.  I didn't realize that when he pointed at my chest, it wasn't my tattoo he was pointing at.  It was my fingernails, as I had reached up to scratch my boob.  In public.  While talking to a stranger.  Klassy with a K.  He took that, "What?" to mean "Go ahead and grab my hand and wipe my fingernail polish off of it in 0.243 seconds."  I just stared at him and then down at my nails.  I said, "Oh.  Now I have one unpolished nail and 9 pink ones.  Gee.  I look awesome."  He looked upset.  "Why are you so upset?  This technique is wonderful.  From Israel.  Invented because a woman had such a hard time keeping polish from chipping off of her fake nails."

One, my nails are real.  A fact that he refused to believe.  That's the question I didn't hear him asking when I thought he was asking about my tattoo.  "Are your nails real?"  The answer I gave to that wasn't "yes".  It was "what?"  Apparently, in Yiddish, that means "no."  So I'm trying to pull my hand away, and he's buffing the stupid thing, telling me my nails are fake, and he can tell because there's a white tip on them, and natural nails don't get that.  Great.  I'm dealing with a brain surgeon, apparently.  I finally yank my hand away, and he's like, "You are not happy, but it is beautiful!" 

No.  It isn't.  It's shiny and DIFFERENT THAN MY OTHER NINE NAILS!  Now, when I scratch my boob in public, it will be REALLY noticable.

WTF? I should work on this paper, for real.  I have another one due next Thursday, so 13 days.  Ten pages.  What stage is that one in, you ask?  It's in the "haven't even opened a Word document for it and put a name on it" stage.  This is so unlike me.  I generally have papers done at least a month in advance.  =/

Checkin the stats...oooh, yeah

I checked my site stats this morning.  That's where I can see who searched what and how they landed on my page.  You guys...there are some HILARIOUS search terms this week.  Here they are.  In top 3 order.

Number 3:  "I hate my double chin".

I don't remember saying this, but HAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHHA I had to have said it at some point.  I love that if you Google this, my page pops up.  I do have a double chin.  I hear if you chew gum, that makes it go away.  I hate gum.

Number 2:  "I've gotta bagel hey hey hey".

Someone else in the world sings "hey hey hey" after everything they've got.  That's awesome.  I know it's after EVERYTHING they've got because the original is not bagel.  It's "a dollar".  And then it's "two pickles" (I think).  I haven't seen the Little Rascals in a long, long time.  I don't even remember who said it.  I could look it up, but no.

NUMBER ONE:  "Stepmom in a chicken."

W.T.F.?

Honorable mention:  "Jackie Chan House".  I don't live in his actual house.  Our house is just called Jackie Chan Estates and Szechuan Chicken Farms.

Also, I have gotten tons and tons of hits from some site called probloggers.  I don't know what you are, but thanks.  Well, I mean, it can't be that hard to figure out what probloggers is.  I'm assuming it's not just a clever name, and it's a site where blogs go to be searched.  Hopefully it's not a place where blogs go to die.  Then it would be called deadbloggers.com.

I'm 8 weeks 5 days pregnant.  My kid has elbows and fingers.  That's pretty cool.  I wish the bot liked food.  Or drink.  Or anything other than making me sleep and vomit, really.  She even hates yoga.  WTF?  Who doesn't like yoga?  Or yogurt.  Mmmmm, yogurt.

WHAT?! NO FEBRUARY BLOGS?!

Hi, February!  I've 15 minutes before class begins, so I'm gonna make this super snappy.


SUPER SNAPPY!! SNAP SNAP!

News:  We're having a baby!  In October!  Totally excited to the max.

Also, school is NUTS!  I'm afraid I won't get it all done, and that is what I have been doing with my time, between vomiting every meal I eat and sleeping more than I've ever slept in my life.  Writing papers and more papers.  I still have four to go, two due next month and two the month after, but then GRADUATION IN MAY!  WOOOOOOOOO HOOOO!

Ok, for real, someone remind me to bliggity blog a little more, yeah? Yeah.  Gotta go to class.

The Morning of Hilarity and Love

Sometimes I wake up in the morning after a bout of insomnia and feel overwhelming love and affection for my family.  This is one of those days, and it's only gotten better since.  Except the part where I walked 15 minutes in the rain from the parking lot to my class building this morning only to find, the instant that I stepped on the wet pavement, that my shoe has a hole in the bottom.  I wish it had a whole bottom.  You see what I did there?  Hello, Wet Sock! You are the bane of my existence, and I will now have to tolerate you for the next 8 hours!

So, I woke up this morning full of love for my wonderful husband and my two little stepdudes, and today...it was POAS day!  The day when I find out if I get to have THREE little dudes or two dudes and a little lady? chick? girlfriend? (If I have a girl, I will need an equally awesome nickname to call her on this blog.  Be thinking on that, loyal readers.)  Anyway, I peed on the stick, and it was negative.  Boo hoo for me, but totally whatever because we will keep trying again Dori style.

Great.  Now I'm going to have Ellen DeGeneres stuck in my head the whole time we are trying next time.  At least she swings my way, so it's not a total loss.  Tricia Kincaid, the creator of my current Mary Kay skin care regime, once told me that I should not forget to moisturize my throat, or else I will look like Ellen forever.  Now I can't look at her without thinking "throat of destruction" and then thinking about Tricia.  Now I will add babymaking to my ever growing list of DeGeneres association.  Sweet.

The Little Man was INFINITELY hilarious in the car this morning.

Driving in the rain:  "Stop, rain, or I will punch you in the face!"
Big Man (matter of fact):  "Please.  Rain doesn't have a face."
Little Man:  "Pfffffft! Yes.  It does!  It's right there on the side of the drop.  I'll punch it there."

He gets the "punch inanimate objects in the face" gene from me.  It's not genetic.  It's sponge-etic.

"Karen, are we going to a different school next year?"
Me:  "Yes, buddy.  You won't have to get up so early, and you can get on the bus at our house instead of having to drive an hour to and from school."
Little Man (clearly alarmed):  "But! I won't ever see Jackie S ever again ever!  How will I ever find a wife?!?!?!? WHO IS GOING TO BE MY WIFE!!!???"

Apparently we've ruined his marriage.

Lastly, a car on the highway was speeding like crazy, cut me off in the pouring rain, and squeezed himself between two cars to take an exit at the last minute.

Me:  "Holy mackerel! That guy almost caused a big accident with his crazy driving!"
Little Man:  "If he knows he is breaking the speed limit, then it's a big on purpose."

These days are the best part of my family.

Oh! Also, my brother, Russ, had an interview in the Nuvo yesterday.  Pretty flipping cool.  You can read it here.  CLICK ME AND YOU CAN READ THIS SUPER ARTICLE OF AWESOMESAUCE!

Ya'll should go see him at the Ugly Monkey for the TEN days before the Super Bowl.  I'm a proud sister, oh yes.

I have stalled almost long enough to head to class!

An Open Letter to Parents of Autistic Children

An Open Letter to Parents of Autistic Children:

I've been ruminating on this post for quite some time, so bear with me.  Like most of my posts, this one will likely be long, rambling, and not as funny as I think it should be.  However, I think it is important.

This blog gets a lot more traffic than the "following" widget shows.  While some of my readers land here looking for porn (seriously? nude Aspie?), most people use search terms such as "what to do with my autistic child?" and "will my autistic child be ok?" or variations thereof.  I do, invariably, get a little bit of e-mail from people that land here.  Some of it is rather rude, but most of it is sent from a place of desperation and a need to feel that everything is going to be all right.  This letter is for those parents who feel as though they have an endless struggle on their hands, and they are looking for a little encouragement.

I would like to apologize to you.  I cannot tell you that your child is going to be okay.  I cannot tell you that he is going to be high functioning.  I cannot tell you that your child is a genius inside his silent shell.  I can't promise you she will ever speak to you or hug you or be able to wear jeans without melting down.  In short, I cannot lie to you.  Some of your children will never say "I love you, Mommy."  Some of them will never look you in the eyes.  Some of them will never move out of your basements.  I'm very sorry.  On the other side of the coin, some of your children will learn affection, and some of them will soon talk your ears off and some of them will get married and have children of their own and tell stories at Christmas like, "Remember that time that I stood on the kitchen counter and shouted 'Bebo! Bebo!' over and over again because it was the only sound that I used to be able to make?"  Some of your children are Albert Einstein or Temple Grandin inside.  I wish I could tell you that your little Bert or Gertrude was that person, but I can't.  I cannot lie to you, even if you are desperate to hear it.

All I can do here is tell you how I function and how I feel about things and ideas that work for me to keep me functioning on a day-to-day basis.  I am but one person with autism, and I'm different from all of the others.  Therapy and social training worked for me in ways that it has not worked for others, as we are not all the same.

What I can do is give you a little shimmer of hope.  All is not lost.  I consider my story a success, and there are many other successes out there as well.  Your kid's may be one of them.

I know that a lot of you feel as though your child's diagnosis is a death sentence for your hopes and dreams for your little one.  I also know that you can't say that out loud without judgment.  If you need to say that, you can say that to me with zero judgment at all, and I can promise you that.  That feeling is perfectly ok, and it is perfectly normal, and, for some of you, it is perfectly valid.  For others, new dreams will emerge, and for others still, all of the original dreams will still come true.

To conclude, I want you to know that I am here for you, and you can vent to me, but please don't ask me to lie to you.  I can't.  I respect you and your unique child too much to do so.

With as Much Love as I've Learned to Give,

Karen

I was born a ramblin maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan...

Listenin to the ITunes on this fine, rainy Wednesday morning, oh, yes indeedy.  I've been running through the house singing at the top of my lungs.  NEVERMIND I'LL FIND...SOMEONE LIKE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!  My luck, the tech from DirecTV that's supposed to be here by noon will show up unannounced and listen for a while.  I hope he brought industrial-strength ear plugs.

So, this blog was prompted by my awesome friend from way back when in the high school days.  She posted an Aspie fact sheet, which  you can find HERE.  Anyway, I posted all confident that I think we autists are the more evolved of the species and that we are the future (mostly joking).  Another of her friends mentioned on the post that when he comes across folks whose family members or children have been diagnosed, he generally recommends they watch Temple Grandin and purchase a copy of the film for others to check out.  So, this little paragraph is in response to that.

I think a lot of people watch Temple, though, and expect that we are all like her.  It's kinda the same as if they watch any movie about autists or read a book about autists or even know an autist, and then expect to know about all autists.  We've gotta saying, "If you've met one person with autism, you've met one person with autism." haha  I wish we all did fit into one mold.  Then it might be easier to figure out where the autism comes from.  Is there a gene that we haven't found, yet?  We don't know because we're all different, some autists have a gene, and some autists don't, and some neurotypicals have the damn gene, too, so it's not the right gene, and we just keep going through this vein over and over.  I sure would like a lot of questions answered.  Hell, I'd like a cure, and by me saying that, the autist community would like to punch me in the knees.  I can go around on my high horse all I want (like I did above) saying we are the wave of the future blah, blah, blah, but the fact of the matter is, I cannot keep a job, and I don't provide for my family, and I'm lucky I'm not rotting in my parents' basement for the rest of my life, and all of those things would be possible for me if I didn't have this...thing.  We're trying to have a baby right now.  It sure would be nice to know HOW genetic this is.  I am high functioning.  Is my baby more likely to be low functioning?  Am I doing the baby and the world a huge disservice by even attempting to procreate?  I'd like to know.  If we were all the same, I bet we could figure it out.

To go back to the original point, it's not that I don't think Temple Grandin is a great movie or that Claire Danes isn't awesome, because I totally do think it's a great movie, and I've loved Claire Danes since she tried to hook up with Jordan Catalano, but I really don't think Ms. Grandin should be considered the norm for the autistic community, KWIM?  I'm sure she's a really amazing human being and all that.  Ah, heck, I think I'm just making excuses for my douchebaggary at this point.

In other news:  I had this horrid nightmare last night that there was a tornado, and the house collapsed.  The kids and I were stuck in the glitter potty in the basement.  My phone had no bars to make calls, but my 3G was up and running, so I had to post on IndyMoms and ask them to call 911 because we were buried in the basement and we had water and a toilet and plenty of glitter, but no food.  I was calm in the dream, and then it suddenly turned all nutso crazy.  Suddenly, it was more than, "Please call 911 to dig us out of the basement."  It was, "The house collapsed, and the kids and I are stuck in the basement, but Eric was upstairs, and I'm calling to him, and he isn't answering."  And then tons of people came to the house to start digging us out, and we could hear their machines, so I was keeping everyone updated on our progress online, and then someone shared a news story with a picture of our house on it and the news that they had found my husband's body.  I was sitting in the basement knowing my husband had been killed but trying not to grieve in order to not scare the dudes even more than they already were being in a basement surrounded by toilets and glitter and silently plotting my revenge on the news station that had reported the death before the next of kin was notified.  As soon as we were dug out, I rushed out to the news fan and beat the reporter up who had done the story and had to be carried away by the police.  I was then carted off in a police car with Eric's ex-wife's mom (a very nice person in real life) screaming at me that now that Eric was gone, I have no rights, and I can expect to never see the dudes again and hahaha!  I woke up with a pillow soaked with tears and my heart about to explode.

This is a very real problem for stepparents, of course.  If something happens to our husbands, we have zero rights to ever see the children again.  Even if their home is with us for years and years.  There is no recourse.  We are at the mercy of ex-wives to allow us to continue to be a part of their children's lives while dealing with the grief of losing a spouse at the same time.  It's just the way of the world and the way of the law.  It's one of those things where you just hope and pray you don't come to that bridge and have to try to cross it.

Check out how I depressed every one of my readers in one fell swoop.  That's pretty awesome.  I had another thought running through my head, too, but it's as equally not funny, so I'll leave it for another day.  I'm sure I won't forget it, as I get a reminder of it every time I leave the house.

WHAT IS THIS?!

OMFG, IT'S A BLOG!! FROM ME!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT!?

Me, neither.  I totally forgot my password and had to jump through hoops to log in today.  Weak sauce.

Anyway, we bought the house, we cleaned the house, we decorated the house, we now live in the house, we love the house, house house house housey house house house.  Love it.

Also, trying to have a baby.  I won't go into details because, you know, gross.

Couple of little changes.  Gonna remove The Mompetition from the blog roll because she's gone outta business, as they say.  Sad days.  She's moved on to greener pastures, given up tenure, etc. etc. other cliches.  Adding People I Want To Punch In The Throat for super hilarity.  You know I love me some hilarious bloggity bliggity blog blogs.

Speaking of hoops and throats, I'm pretty sure I knocked my throat on one of them there hoops, because dudes, I am SICK!  Sore throat of imminent doom and destruction has settled on me, and I'm pretty sure death is near.  Of course it is.  I'm having the BEST.WEEK.EVAR!!!

BTW, read that "evar" how it is spelled, please, as that is how I pronounce it.  Some duder on my Facebook made fun of my "misspelling" of this word, only IT IS NOT MISSPELLED UNINTENTIONALLY!  I am seriously not a moron.  I know how to spell the word "ever" properly.  I have since I was around 4 years old, promise.  I often type things out the way I would speak them, which means getting creative with the spelling and making it look like I'm an idiot in print.  Perhaps I should change this characteristic about myself.  I bet there would be a lot less red squiggly lines under my writing, and mayhaps people would not think I was a completely uneducated idiot of the first degree.

I am not uneducated, of course, and part of the best.week.evar! proves it.  I got all A's again this semester, so suck it, detractors.  Well A's in the two classes that have posted, which were hard as shit.  War and Conflict and US/Middle East Foreign Policy.  My guitar class hasn't posted, yet, but...uh...it's beginning guitar.  The hardest thing I had to do was keep my fingernails short while simultaneously taking prenatal vitamins.  Pretty sure I can predict an A in that one.  Oh, wait, I just checked, it just posted.  A in the face! YEAH!  Take that, prenatals!

Also, Eric traded in his awesome and manly BMW for a less sexy and more family SUV, and I love it to pieces.

Too, Big Man had his first ever holiday program last night, and it was the cutest thing I've ever seen ever.  I've been looking forward to a holiday program from one of the dudes for, like, 4 years now.  AND I think Little Man has a spring program later in the year, which will be aweeeesome.  Big Man got to play the bells, and although he looked nervous and uncomfortable as crap through the first seven or eight songs, by the last two, he was dancing around like a crazy person with huge genuine smiles on his face.

Thirdly, if I can get over this death-bringing illness by tomorrow, I have volunteered for the first time to work a booth at the kids' end-of-semester Golden Celebration at their school.  I'm terrified for this.  The last time I volunteered (Little Man's field trip) it was NOT good.  Little Man showed off how horrible his behavior could be that day.  Hopefully it's not a repeat offense.  He's matured since then (in the two months) I'm sure of it!  I'm looking forward to it now.  Ask me again tomorrow around 3 when it's over.

Last, FRIDAY!!!  The kids have Friday off school, and I'm baking cookies with them, which means me upstairs with Betty Crocker while the kids run wild in the basement until it's time for frosting because I am more excited about this than they are.  THEN, THEN!!! CHRISTMAS AT THE ZOO!!  I have always wanted to go to Christmas at the Zoo, and we get to go this year!!  Then, Saturday morning with the boys Christmas, which they are very concerned about because how will Santa know to come on Christmas Eve Eve instead of Christmas Eve?  I hate Santa, but that's another blog entirely.  I just unconvincingly said, "Don't worry about it."

I have more to write, but sitting up is becoming increasingly difficult.  I'm goin back to Cali, to Cali, to Cali....if Cali is my bed.

My chest aches

It is no secret that my past is not a pretty thing.  From the age of about 17 to around 27 my life was a mess, to put it mildly.  Things that happened during that time tend to come back to haunt me, especially at bedtime.  I believe it's a major source of my insomnia.  I spend a lot of nights crying into my pillow.

A lot of this rethinking showed up with my counseling for my Asperger's diagnosis.  Social training not only taught me how to interact and read others, it also taught me the cruelty of others, cruelty that I did not have the capacity to understand before my training.  I have a tendency to review past interactions, interactions that meant nothing to me at the time, and feel immensely hurt now that I understand them.  Boyfriends who I thought I loved at tender ages cheated, and it didn't hurt for more than a second, or even at all.  Donny's abuse really didn't have much affect on me until much later, and once I figured it out, there was no pain at all.  I was able to walk away from a years'-long relationship without a drop of hurt or care.  I'd moved on emotionally before I'd even moved out of the house.  Within hours of the boot flying at my face, actually.  I remember it being a huge problem in the break up.  He would cry and yell and scream about how angry and hurt he was and that he loved me and needed me, and we had to make this work, and all I could muster was a bored stare.  There was a common complaint of, "How can you be so cold?"  He's not the only one who has ever said that.  There are people in my life that I should be intensely angry with.  This is what keeps me up at night.  The coldness is gone, and now my emotions, or at least my thoughts, seem to understand what happened around me, and it hurts.  I'm pretty sure my emotions were intact before, but they weren't connecting with my brain.  My behavior acted accordingly, that's for sure.  With each hurt, I got a bit more reckless, but my noodle never connected it with the emotional "pain".  I suppose that's because emotions don't have a mental reaction, really.  They're not connected to anything.  To me, emotions are just words, or a fleeting physical reaction.  My chest aches now, though, so that's something.

OK, I am interrupting this pensive whine-fest for a little WTF.  I am trying to earn Swagbucks, and I'm watching SBTV, and one of the food videos is seriously, "Spatchcocking a chicken, how to".  W.T.F? Spatchcocking?!?!?!?  What in the heck is that?  I suppose, if I actually WATCHED the video, then I would know, but I don't actually watch the videos.  I turn them on, and then do other things while they earn Swagbucks for me.  That way I can get a free HDTV for Christmas.  http://www.swagbucks.com/refer/kbaum1608  You see what I did there?

Also, I was poking through my stats, and there's a way to see what people search to find my blog.  I gotta say, some of y'all are SICK, dudes.  Well, probably not my regular reading dudes, but some of y'all who land on my page.  There are my homies, who find me via Googling my blog or clicking through from FB or the blogs we all share as IndyMoms, and then, there are the strangers.  Some of them are looking for help, mostly parenting an autistic stepkid.  Sorry, can't help you there.  Some of them are looking for an outlet for anger, "my stepmom sucks".  Then, there's the sickos looking for porn.  I promise to you, several of my "readers" have found me by searching for adult websites featuring stepmothers.  I'm happy to say you will find none of that here, sirs.

Though you might have ten years ago.