Ironically enough, I don't believe I've ever used that term to describe my house, my boys, my world. Probably take more than three rings, don't you think?
Am desperate. Grasping at all sorts of odd "huh, I never thought about that" ways to have at the very least, another pair of eyes connected to a brain that has a mouth from which to yell "No, no, NOOOO, LRHF!" (that seems to be my forte in this parenting game. Not trying to impress anyone, I'm just saying.)
So a neighbor knows some people who work with some people who might know some people who might be able to help us keep it together, at least for now. So I make some calls. And one of these people, she calls me back. From Circus Camp in Vermont.
Circus Camp.
Right. I know.
But certain times call for certain measures. So we meet up, all of us. And we're trying to figure out if this is something that might be do-able, even just a teensy bit. And she notes LRHF's red hair and offers to trade her redhead for my redhead. (which btw, is probably legal in our great state and then I could stop listing Fuzzy on Ebay) So I say, "how old is your redhead?" and she says, "he's seventeen," and I say, "I love teen-age boys!" (Note to self: stop saying this to people, for heavens' sake, and find a new way to explain that you particularly enjoy working with adolescents, because this way is really, really creepy, even after you clarify)
Long story short, we no longer have trained therapists. We have another redhead. Granted, a more-likely-to-be smart and responsible one, but I just sort of think it's funny. Maybe not ha-ha funny, now that I really think about it, but another potty-trained person is another potty trained person, you know? That's pretty much the bar these days. And his mom will work w/LRHF on motor stuff, too. She's good, just busy. And she brings all this circus stuff when she comes.
Oh, and also, as one might expect in Our Family of Strange and Useless Superpowers, we've discovered that Big Boy is really quite a natural at walking on stilts.
That'll come in handy someday, right?
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Didn't We Almost Have it All?
LRHF’s therapy program ended. Just. Ended. It took surprisingly little to end the program around which we scheduled 4 hours a day, 6 days a week for the past year or so. Just a meeting and a job loss cost us that program that was created for my son, ( Remember it now? All those posts about “hope” and selling my soul. Whatever.) Yeah, that’s the one.
Gone, Baby, Gone.
Gone with the Wind.
Gone, Gone, Gone.
So what does this mean for us who make Havoc and Shine? Hmmm...I'll try to explain how it changed every one of us, how it showed us just the tip of LRHF’s potential, and how whetted his little six-year-old appetite for more, more, more. And now, how big a rip, a gash, a gore it left in it's wake, in our hopes. How pointless it all seems now.
Oh, but how rude of me!
I should bring you up to speed. Won’t take long.
Friday: all okay. Program all systems go. Business as usual. Same old, Same old.
Monday: scheduled meeting. Program’s over. Oh. I'm sorry, what? (and WTF?!)
BUT the good news is that we have a referral. Really great too, because it's the only other show in town. So I called the referral (caught her on the way to her Lake House don't you know), she made it palpably clear in her tone that she wasn’t interested in helping my kid by virtue of our zipcode She was suddenly very short-staffed. Stretched sooo thin. Too far for her staff to come. (Umm...no, no it really isn't)
We live in a lovely ‘hood. It is a mixed ‘hood. It is the Deep South. ‘Nuff said? Exactly.
And now you are up to speed.
So here we are. What a steaming freaking mess. *I* have learned nothing about doing this mom-to-autie gig better. Fuzzy and Bigboy don’t know what to do with their quirky damn selves except push each other’s buttons. Dh is at work for all of this, so he’s all like, “what’s the big deal?” You want to know to whom it is a big deal, a big damned motherfreaker of a deal? It’s a big deal to LRHF. Yeah. He’s sad. He’s mad. He’s stimmy. He’s biting kids at school. He’s really not happy at all that he no longer has a staff. What’s more, he’s really quite sure that it’s Mommy’s fault. Yup. And he fully intends that Mommy will know it is her fault via an impressive variety of non-verbal actions. Some are potentially amusing, it's true, because they are so very, very clearly directed at me. Not funny for the target. He stops the washer and dryer mid-cycle. Not good in Deep Southern Heat. He hides my tools, or worse, uses them. He covers my plants with sand. Found some of my half-done (and quite frankly half-assed) arty project thingies in the trash. He got out all my spice extracts, lined them up beside the sink, waited for my full attention, and then systematically dumped them down the drain
(It was at this point that Fuzzy walked by and said, “Mmm…I smell muffins!” *sigh*).
Then there are the not-so-amusing-and-potentially-dangerous ways he shares his feelings. Like running downhill toward the road. Like attempting to do his own cooking. With the oven. On Broil. Like busting the lock on Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom door because he knows, you see, he knows that sex is all Mommy and Daddy got left.
Oh, Sweet Boy, I am sorry, so very sorry for so many reasons, but I did not do this thing. When you finally rest your crying and over-stimulated self in my lap and tell me, “lonely” you must surely know I did not do this.
Please know this.
I couldn’t do this thing. Really. But it is done and me? I’m a sham. Oh, all Autism-is-not-the-End and whatever. Full of shit, that’s what I am. Still weak, still crying, still frozen. So I guess some things don’t change. Except that LRHF has changed. He's is no longer the less-independent, less able, younger Face-of-God baby he was when the whole dog and pony show started. He's in on the secret--he's smart, smart, smart. He’s pulling out all the stops--remembering the old ones, adding in new twists, and let me remind you that I am SO much older than I was back then. Older than I was yesterday. Slower. Left with only paper-thin patience, all the time, every time. Lots of yelling. Giving up or giving in. Mighty fine parenting. And I hate all of it, because I do know better, but I also know when I’m beaten. You know, there's "getting through" something and "being through" with something. I think I had the two confused or something. Or I never knew the difference.
Doesn’t matter, really.
And now there is no one to tell. No one has ideas, and no one has time and no one knows how truly useless I am when left to my own mothering devices. But my favorite, my personal favorite--that which stuns me every goddamned time and when will I ever learn, is that no one stays. They just...drive away.
Our beautiful and beloved Walter-Cat died so suddenly and without warning that I screamed when the vet called. Pillar of Strength, that’s me. Worse, tho, I can’t help but think if I’d paid better attention to him instead being on constant and necessary angry autie watch (it might involve broiling, remember), maybe that not-very-old-and-in-pretty-good-shape Brother Cat would be at the foot of the bed even as I write.
These ripples just keep on coming, never calming, even a little bit--that kid just has such a
great memory, everyone said that, you know. And now he’ll never forget when all the people came to play with him and teach him, and encourage him.
But the worst of the worst?
I wonder if he thinks I’ve given up on him. Really, I do. You know how I am. There’s hurt in his face when he looks at me now, and in that peaceless part of my mommy-heart, I wonder this horrible and untrue thing. I suppose I have given up on me, now that I think about it.
And it stops me cold. I’m…I can’t.
Now to be fair, you know our circumstances are a bit harder than most, and you know that I'm a bit less capable than most, and that our family dynamic is a bit more um...complicated than most, so truth be told, it’s probably just me being, well, me.
(Right? It’s not that big a deal, right? I’m making way too much of it, right?)
But what if it is too much? What if my 18th trip back to square one is the one that leaves me stuck? What can I give my beautiful son from there? What if I’ve given up? It does happen , you know. It happens to people who can only pretend to be strong and brave and capable. It happens when they can’t pretend anymore.
It happens when it ends.
Gone, Baby, Gone.
Gone with the Wind.
Gone, Gone, Gone.
So what does this mean for us who make Havoc and Shine? Hmmm...I'll try to explain how it changed every one of us, how it showed us just the tip of LRHF’s potential, and how whetted his little six-year-old appetite for more, more, more. And now, how big a rip, a gash, a gore it left in it's wake, in our hopes. How pointless it all seems now.
Oh, but how rude of me!
I should bring you up to speed. Won’t take long.
Friday: all okay. Program all systems go. Business as usual. Same old, Same old.
Monday: scheduled meeting. Program’s over. Oh. I'm sorry, what? (and WTF?!)
BUT the good news is that we have a referral. Really great too, because it's the only other show in town. So I called the referral (caught her on the way to her Lake House don't you know), she made it palpably clear in her tone that she wasn’t interested in helping my kid by virtue of our zipcode She was suddenly very short-staffed. Stretched sooo thin. Too far for her staff to come. (Umm...no, no it really isn't)
We live in a lovely ‘hood. It is a mixed ‘hood. It is the Deep South. ‘Nuff said? Exactly.
And now you are up to speed.
So here we are. What a steaming freaking mess. *I* have learned nothing about doing this mom-to-autie gig better. Fuzzy and Bigboy don’t know what to do with their quirky damn selves except push each other’s buttons. Dh is at work for all of this, so he’s all like, “what’s the big deal?” You want to know to whom it is a big deal, a big damned motherfreaker of a deal? It’s a big deal to LRHF. Yeah. He’s sad. He’s mad. He’s stimmy. He’s biting kids at school. He’s really not happy at all that he no longer has a staff. What’s more, he’s really quite sure that it’s Mommy’s fault. Yup. And he fully intends that Mommy will know it is her fault via an impressive variety of non-verbal actions. Some are potentially amusing, it's true, because they are so very, very clearly directed at me. Not funny for the target. He stops the washer and dryer mid-cycle. Not good in Deep Southern Heat. He hides my tools, or worse, uses them. He covers my plants with sand. Found some of my half-done (and quite frankly half-assed) arty project thingies in the trash. He got out all my spice extracts, lined them up beside the sink, waited for my full attention, and then systematically dumped them down the drain
(It was at this point that Fuzzy walked by and said, “Mmm…I smell muffins!” *sigh*).
Then there are the not-so-amusing-and-potentially-dangerous ways he shares his feelings. Like running downhill toward the road. Like attempting to do his own cooking. With the oven. On Broil. Like busting the lock on Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom door because he knows, you see, he knows that sex is all Mommy and Daddy got left.
Oh, Sweet Boy, I am sorry, so very sorry for so many reasons, but I did not do this thing. When you finally rest your crying and over-stimulated self in my lap and tell me, “lonely” you must surely know I did not do this.
Please know this.
I couldn’t do this thing. Really. But it is done and me? I’m a sham. Oh, all Autism-is-not-the-End and whatever. Full of shit, that’s what I am. Still weak, still crying, still frozen. So I guess some things don’t change. Except that LRHF has changed. He's is no longer the less-independent, less able, younger Face-of-God baby he was when the whole dog and pony show started. He's in on the secret--he's smart, smart, smart. He’s pulling out all the stops--remembering the old ones, adding in new twists, and let me remind you that I am SO much older than I was back then. Older than I was yesterday. Slower. Left with only paper-thin patience, all the time, every time. Lots of yelling. Giving up or giving in. Mighty fine parenting. And I hate all of it, because I do know better, but I also know when I’m beaten. You know, there's "getting through" something and "being through" with something. I think I had the two confused or something. Or I never knew the difference.
Doesn’t matter, really.
And now there is no one to tell. No one has ideas, and no one has time and no one knows how truly useless I am when left to my own mothering devices. But my favorite, my personal favorite--that which stuns me every goddamned time and when will I ever learn, is that no one stays. They just...drive away.
Our beautiful and beloved Walter-Cat died so suddenly and without warning that I screamed when the vet called. Pillar of Strength, that’s me. Worse, tho, I can’t help but think if I’d paid better attention to him instead being on constant and necessary angry autie watch (it might involve broiling, remember), maybe that not-very-old-and-in-pretty-good-shape Brother Cat would be at the foot of the bed even as I write.
These ripples just keep on coming, never calming, even a little bit--that kid just has such a
great memory, everyone said that, you know. And now he’ll never forget when all the people came to play with him and teach him, and encourage him.
But the worst of the worst?
I wonder if he thinks I’ve given up on him. Really, I do. You know how I am. There’s hurt in his face when he looks at me now, and in that peaceless part of my mommy-heart, I wonder this horrible and untrue thing. I suppose I have given up on me, now that I think about it.
And it stops me cold. I’m…I can’t.
Now to be fair, you know our circumstances are a bit harder than most, and you know that I'm a bit less capable than most, and that our family dynamic is a bit more um...complicated than most, so truth be told, it’s probably just me being, well, me.
(Right? It’s not that big a deal, right? I’m making way too much of it, right?)
But what if it is too much? What if my 18th trip back to square one is the one that leaves me stuck? What can I give my beautiful son from there? What if I’ve given up? It does happen , you know. It happens to people who can only pretend to be strong and brave and capable. It happens when they can’t pretend anymore.
It happens when it ends.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
God's Lap Cat Now
Walter Tucker 1999-2010
Feline Ambassador to Dog People the world over.
Tolerant of many boy-based indignities.
Our Best and Beautiful Boycat, loved quite well and lost too soon.
More later.
Very Sad.
Feline Ambassador to Dog People the world over.
Tolerant of many boy-based indignities.
Our Best and Beautiful Boycat, loved quite well and lost too soon.
More later.
Very Sad.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Picnics, Packing, and Pharmacology. And the therapy thing.
Well, we've been invited to a labor day picnic at our brand new community garden today. I'm so excited to see the outside world that it's pathetic. Of course the community garden part is an exciting thought as well.
Guess it's time to start packing. Trains, extra clothes, food, juiceboxes, dvd player/dvds...did I mention that autism makes a three hour picnic the equivelent of a three week trip?
Here's the thing: a year ago, we would have stayed home. Today, I'm packing for a picnic that we fully intend to attend--fully armed (autie-wise) but still.
Tomorrow I will have to call my shit insurance company and raise hell to get Big Boy the totally generic, totally safe, totally necessary meds that shit insurance doesn't want to provide. They'd like to keep him on the stimulants. Niiiiiiice.
And that is the easy part.
Tomorrow I will also have to face the whole no-therapy=impossible autistic kid situation. I have no idea. Not one measly pea-brained idea. And I am sooooo much older than I was two years ago. So much older.
Kumbyah, my Lord. Please Kumbyah.
Guess it's time to start packing. Trains, extra clothes, food, juiceboxes, dvd player/dvds...did I mention that autism makes a three hour picnic the equivelent of a three week trip?
Here's the thing: a year ago, we would have stayed home. Today, I'm packing for a picnic that we fully intend to attend--fully armed (autie-wise) but still.
Tomorrow I will have to call my shit insurance company and raise hell to get Big Boy the totally generic, totally safe, totally necessary meds that shit insurance doesn't want to provide. They'd like to keep him on the stimulants. Niiiiiiice.
And that is the easy part.
Tomorrow I will also have to face the whole no-therapy=impossible autistic kid situation. I have no idea. Not one measly pea-brained idea. And I am sooooo much older than I was two years ago. So much older.
Kumbyah, my Lord. Please Kumbyah.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
I Have Been Outed
Yes, it's true. I am out.
Oddly enough, I don't feel even a teeny bit liberated by the experience. No huge sigh of relief. No new-found empowerment. Strange, huh?
Oh. Wait. Maybe it's not the same thing.
I have been outnumbered, outwitted and definitely out-penised. Maybe there's another kind of out that is more fun. I'll have to ask.
We ran out of therapists last week. Yes. I have been the only adult for fewer than seven days and already I'm bitching about it. Ahh....yeah, you've met my kids, so don't look at me that way.
For the last year and a half, we've had therapists in the LRHF Home Therapy Program, mostly six days a week. We revolved around them because they revolved around LRHF. I kept one bathroom up to OSHA standards (sorta), watched out for untimely cat puke, and kept a lot of doors shut. It was nice.
I miss it.
I miss it for the obvious and scary reasons, of course, that well, he's getting no therapy. That's the big reason. But not trailing too far in second place is that it was really, really really great to be able to go outside and work, or take soup to a neighbor (yes I did really do that, thank you very much) and come back to okay-ness. Nothing broken. Minimal screaming, everyone accounted for, no one eating glue...it was good. Waaaay good. Damn Good.
In fewer than seven days I have found out that I am so freaking out of my league that, I don't know, someone should call somebody or something. LRHF keeps looking for his "staff" and he's mad as hell that they're gone. Mad as hell for LRHF means entire boxes of cheese crackers opened and crushed and spread all over the many rugs in many rooms, dvd players dismantled, freezers left just slightly open, and all other manner of other reindeer games.
Oh God, the juice! The-pouring-red-juice-myself-episodes! Ohhhh noooo....wow, that is some sticky shit, let me tell you what.
What I'm waiting for is the egg thing. That will be the real death knell for me and all my marginal mothering ambition. That's when he finds the 18 pack of eggs that we've hidden in the fridge and just cracks them all. Eighteen eggs. Massacred. Now, it used to be that he left a trail from the fridge to the stove. Probably eight feet of egg goo. Eventually, the number of eggs lost in battle remained unchanged, but the trail got shorter as his aim improved. Still, eighteen eggs, is eighteen eggs. And no cleaning staff is, well, me scraping the congealed crap up as best I can before someone dances in it.
*sigh*
And just to be straight (not that there's anything wrong with that), I'm around. Seriously, where would I go? But he has this drive for independance that I just can't beat. Back when we first started therapy, I'd spend entire days dancing around my kitchen asking him what he wanted...trying to get requests out of him. All different ways. Must have looked like an absolute idiot to him. Nothing. Then, the very second I, oh...went to relieve myself, or break up another fight, or clean up another mess, he was all over getting the stuff himself. Like a superhero, he was. Cheezit Man. (Can you just picture that superhero outfit? Good thing he looks good in that color) I have pre-poured juice all ready for safe and dripless consumption. No good. He wants to pour it himself, and so he will. With varying degrees of success. Now this is part of the package regarding the men here. The world is made up of men in their family and Idiots. You do the math.
I'm scared about finding therapy for him. Really scared. Praying a lot. Really praying. Please don't mistake my priorities here.
But honestly? I'm so...tired. Feel like I've been on guard forever. Don't I get 15 minutes for every 4 hours? I've got stuff to do, stuff that has to be done, like laundry and then stuff I *might* enjoy doing, like working outside. Did you see mani-pedi anywhere in that last sentence? Me neither. And yet. Constant vigilance is not my strongpoint. Much better at vague awareness. Or gut feeling. But this constant chase,(and it is a chase, he's that freaking fast), is killing me. He's totally onto me. I can't win. I am too old and he is too smart.
Please, please, I just want a tiny bit of that old okay-time back...just a second or two. It's been a really long day for the last few years. I'm losing light. That spark that I swear I saw at the end of the tunnel. But no end in sight. No therapists lined up. Just a very smart, ferociously frustrated autie, his drama queen-esque, slightly-ignored-but-no-less-loved brothers, and their very sad, very scared, and very tired mother.
He's winning. I'm yelling. It's not working. It's not working.
I don't like being out, thank you very much. Can I ask for a time-out instead? That sounds so lovely. The little chair in the quiet hall...I'm 43, so one minute per year (ask any child expert) means almost an hour for me.
Wow. I'm in.
Oddly enough, I don't feel even a teeny bit liberated by the experience. No huge sigh of relief. No new-found empowerment. Strange, huh?
Oh. Wait. Maybe it's not the same thing.
I have been outnumbered, outwitted and definitely out-penised. Maybe there's another kind of out that is more fun. I'll have to ask.
We ran out of therapists last week. Yes. I have been the only adult for fewer than seven days and already I'm bitching about it. Ahh....yeah, you've met my kids, so don't look at me that way.
For the last year and a half, we've had therapists in the LRHF Home Therapy Program, mostly six days a week. We revolved around them because they revolved around LRHF. I kept one bathroom up to OSHA standards (sorta), watched out for untimely cat puke, and kept a lot of doors shut. It was nice.
I miss it.
I miss it for the obvious and scary reasons, of course, that well, he's getting no therapy. That's the big reason. But not trailing too far in second place is that it was really, really really great to be able to go outside and work, or take soup to a neighbor (yes I did really do that, thank you very much) and come back to okay-ness. Nothing broken. Minimal screaming, everyone accounted for, no one eating glue...it was good. Waaaay good. Damn Good.
In fewer than seven days I have found out that I am so freaking out of my league that, I don't know, someone should call somebody or something. LRHF keeps looking for his "staff" and he's mad as hell that they're gone. Mad as hell for LRHF means entire boxes of cheese crackers opened and crushed and spread all over the many rugs in many rooms, dvd players dismantled, freezers left just slightly open, and all other manner of other reindeer games.
Oh God, the juice! The-pouring-red-juice-myself-episodes! Ohhhh noooo....wow, that is some sticky shit, let me tell you what.
What I'm waiting for is the egg thing. That will be the real death knell for me and all my marginal mothering ambition. That's when he finds the 18 pack of eggs that we've hidden in the fridge and just cracks them all. Eighteen eggs. Massacred. Now, it used to be that he left a trail from the fridge to the stove. Probably eight feet of egg goo. Eventually, the number of eggs lost in battle remained unchanged, but the trail got shorter as his aim improved. Still, eighteen eggs, is eighteen eggs. And no cleaning staff is, well, me scraping the congealed crap up as best I can before someone dances in it.
*sigh*
And just to be straight (not that there's anything wrong with that), I'm around. Seriously, where would I go? But he has this drive for independance that I just can't beat. Back when we first started therapy, I'd spend entire days dancing around my kitchen asking him what he wanted...trying to get requests out of him. All different ways. Must have looked like an absolute idiot to him. Nothing. Then, the very second I, oh...went to relieve myself, or break up another fight, or clean up another mess, he was all over getting the stuff himself. Like a superhero, he was. Cheezit Man. (Can you just picture that superhero outfit? Good thing he looks good in that color) I have pre-poured juice all ready for safe and dripless consumption. No good. He wants to pour it himself, and so he will. With varying degrees of success. Now this is part of the package regarding the men here. The world is made up of men in their family and Idiots. You do the math.
I'm scared about finding therapy for him. Really scared. Praying a lot. Really praying. Please don't mistake my priorities here.
But honestly? I'm so...tired. Feel like I've been on guard forever. Don't I get 15 minutes for every 4 hours? I've got stuff to do, stuff that has to be done, like laundry and then stuff I *might* enjoy doing, like working outside. Did you see mani-pedi anywhere in that last sentence? Me neither. And yet. Constant vigilance is not my strongpoint. Much better at vague awareness. Or gut feeling. But this constant chase,(and it is a chase, he's that freaking fast), is killing me. He's totally onto me. I can't win. I am too old and he is too smart.
Please, please, I just want a tiny bit of that old okay-time back...just a second or two. It's been a really long day for the last few years. I'm losing light. That spark that I swear I saw at the end of the tunnel. But no end in sight. No therapists lined up. Just a very smart, ferociously frustrated autie, his drama queen-esque, slightly-ignored-but-no-less-loved brothers, and their very sad, very scared, and very tired mother.
He's winning. I'm yelling. It's not working. It's not working.
I don't like being out, thank you very much. Can I ask for a time-out instead? That sounds so lovely. The little chair in the quiet hall...I'm 43, so one minute per year (ask any child expert) means almost an hour for me.
Wow. I'm in.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
A Belated Thank-You Note to LRHF
How many years can one technically work on potty training? Is there a cut-off? A retirement? a money-back guarantee? S'pose not, because I would have found it by now.
Six years is a long time, even when mommy is really only phoning in her efforts b/c the only thing she hates more than diapers is that very iffy period of infinite accidents that follow potty training.
But LRHF will get it. Oh, yes we can. Just wish the we didn't include me. I'm tired.
So we're working on it. Sort of. More than we used to (we, being me--my husband is very good about this). And this kid knows me. Knows how to push buttons. And I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. And...oh, never mind.
The other night I casually suggested we visit the potty before bed. Sort of laid back, you know how I roll...just and idea, really...but he toddled off, pulled down the ol' pull up and sat.
No pressure. No expectations. Just chillin' on the potty.
But then, much to our mutual surprise, there was pee pee! There was pee pee going with gravity in the general direction most of us send our pee pee. I got excited. "Hurrah!" I yelled.
"You are so big now!" and all the like.
My LRHF, my beautiful boy, waited for me to regain my composure, then stood up, little pull-up down at his ankles, and he looked at me for a moment. Thinking. Then he said it. Very simply and clearly and emphatically.
He stood in front of that toilet, looked his poor feeble mommy in the eye and he said,
"You're Welcome!"
Six years is a long time, even when mommy is really only phoning in her efforts b/c the only thing she hates more than diapers is that very iffy period of infinite accidents that follow potty training.
But LRHF will get it. Oh, yes we can. Just wish the we didn't include me. I'm tired.
So we're working on it. Sort of. More than we used to (we, being me--my husband is very good about this). And this kid knows me. Knows how to push buttons. And I know he knows. And he knows I know he knows. And...oh, never mind.
The other night I casually suggested we visit the potty before bed. Sort of laid back, you know how I roll...just and idea, really...but he toddled off, pulled down the ol' pull up and sat.
No pressure. No expectations. Just chillin' on the potty.
But then, much to our mutual surprise, there was pee pee! There was pee pee going with gravity in the general direction most of us send our pee pee. I got excited. "Hurrah!" I yelled.
"You are so big now!" and all the like.
My LRHF, my beautiful boy, waited for me to regain my composure, then stood up, little pull-up down at his ankles, and he looked at me for a moment. Thinking. Then he said it. Very simply and clearly and emphatically.
He stood in front of that toilet, looked his poor feeble mommy in the eye and he said,
"You're Welcome!"
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