The Almighty Schedule

20150314_201637Schedules are kind of a big thing in my household.

Like many autism parents, I’m sure, we have one of those dry-erase weekly schedules hanging up on our door. The point of it, besides detailing what activities each day had in store (including the mundane stuff, like eating), is to give the kiddos peace of mind and help them ease from one activity to another. It has the space to write either the days of the week, or the whole month on it if you are so inclined, and my super-awesome partner has printed out and laminated a bunch of little clip-art pictures to indicate different activities, such as an apple for mealtimes, or a clock for appointments.

There is even a little picture with a cartoon doctor and patient, to represent… you guessed it!… doctor appointments. Remember that, because it’ll be on the test.

Last Sunday, like every Sunday, I allowed Jill to watch me while I made the schedule for that week. She likes to “help”… and by help, I mean stand there and watch while I make the schedule, and then doodle 5 or 6 pretty little stars along the bottom of the calendar after I’m done.

Hey, it gives her a feeling of accomplishment. Who am I to judge?

Anyway, when I stuck the pictures on for all the usual daily things, I started with the other stuff. I put a little clock on Wednesday and Thursday morning, to signify that she and Jack had an appointment with their OT. Since the kids are on spring break, and since I don’t have pictures of dogs to indicate when we go to walk a friend’s dog, I wrote the name “Milo” where needed.

And then, there was the little doctor picture. Remember the doctor picture?

I put the doctor on Wednesday afternoon, and wrote a little “2pm” next to it, and thought nothing further about the whole thing.

I thought nothing further about it, that is, until Tuesday afternoon. For some god-forsaken reason, I thought I should double-check the appointment time on my Outlook calendar, where I make a note of every little appointment we ever have, anywhere.

Lo and behold, as I click on Wednesday the 11th, I find…nothing.

Crap.

I click on Tuesday the 10th, wondering if I might have missed it by accident.

Nope. Nada.

I stare blankly at my computer screen for a moment, a sudden feeling of dread coming over me. A little voice at the back of my head whispered: “Well, you fucked up.”

The kids were oblivious to my despair. They sat at their little table, colouring in a couple of activity books.
I eyed them carefully.

Then, like a desperate parent smuggling a freshly bought chocolate bar into their secret stash, I slowly put my laptop down on the couch. I quietly got up off the couch, wincing and shooting a glance at the kids every time the couch squeaked. I shuffled into the front hall, my back turned to the living room, and quickly moved the doctor picture over to Thursday.

“What you doing, Mommy?” Jill’s delicate little voice piped up, from directly behind me.

“FUCKING HELL!” I exclaimed, whirling around. “You scared the crap out of me! I’m fixing a boo-boo, honey.”

“You don’t say ‘fucking’, Mommy, you say freaking,” she informed me.

“Um. Sure,” I replied, forcing a smile. Straightening up, I tried my best to casually stroll back into the living room as if nothing happened… nothing was different.

Jill stood there in front of the wall schedule. She started crying. Jack, still sitting at the table, starting crying in sympathy.

Crap. Double crap.

Jill loves going to the doctor. She’d been looking forward to the appointment all week, even though she’s not sick and the whole point of the appointment was just to get a referral to another type of doctor. Nonetheless, the mistake was practically earth shattering as far as she was concerned.

I rushed back to my little girl, and started to comfort her, saying that I made a mistake and put the doctor picture on the wrong day. It took me 15 minutes to get her to stop crying, and when I did, she finally spoke up: “It’s in the wrong place.”

“I know, honey. I made a little mistake, putting the picture on the wrong day. We’ll go on Thursday instead.”

Jill appeared to accept that reassurance, just then, but appearances can be deceptive. In fact, in the couple of hours between that moment and dinner time, she positioned herself in front of the calendar what must have been 50 more times and stared at it. Even while she was colouring, or eating her meal later on, she repeated several times that the appointment was going to be on Thursday and not Wednesday, and that I had put the picture in the wrong time slot.

See… you just don’t mess with the schedule. Once you make it, it might as well be set in stone. It’s though you have climbed that mountain and chiseled it into those two tablets, because you might as well be Moses, with his Commandments.

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The F Bomb

swearingI used to be a lot more shy than I am now, and a lot less inclined to swear, when I was younger.

Then, I let some crappy people into my life. Now, I swear like a trucker.

It’s cathartic for me- I swear to vent my feelings, so that I don’t have to explain to a judge why I killed so-and-so. I’ll admit, sometimes I swear to get a reaction, too.

It isn’t as though it reflects a poor intellect on my part, either. Not to be vain, but I like to think that I am at least as smart as I am smart-assed. Technically, I could say the same stuff in a much less vulgar way, but frankly it wouldn’t be as inherently satisfying.

My thought is that swearing is fine, but you don’t do it until you know what the words mean and when you should NOT use them.

My partner and I do actually try to curb our use of the choice words, whenever we’re with our kids, but we don’t cut them out altogether. We simply explain that those particular words are “Mommy and Daddy words”, and hope for the best. After all, the F bomb and other words like it are an intrinsic part of what makes up our sarcastic, vulgar, smart-assed personalities. Without them, we just wouldn’t be the same people.

The problem is that not only are kids (especially A.S.D kiddos, apparently) like sponges, but they are also like broken records- they will latch onto something and, despite being warned not to, they will repeat that thing ad nauseam. My kids have done this to the point where their Dad and I are on the verge of being driven crazy by it.

My particular problem is that I find it hard to be stern with my kids when they say a word they shouldn’t, because I’m usually too busy laughing.

Case in point:

Jill had just abandoned her Magnadoodle, after writing the alphabet on it, and sat down to colour at the kids’ table. Jack, even though he actually has his own Magnadoodle, immediately pounced on the opportunity to play with two of them simultaneously. The look on his face was sheer joy.

Jill: “Jack, don’t erase my freaking letters!”

Me, wanting to use this as a teaching opportunity: “It’s O.K to say ‘freaking’, honey. ‘Freaking’ is a good word.”

Jill, while colouring: “’Freaking’ is O.K. I can say ‘freaking’. I can’t say ‘fucking’.”

It took me several minutes to stop laughing, before I could tell Jill not to use that word.

My kids’ future teachers are going to love us parents. I have a feeling there are going to be plenty of Parent-Teacher Interviews.

I can see it now:

Their dad and I will be sitting in front of the teacher’s desk, in a couple of chairs that are way too small to fit our asses, looking as contrite as we can possibly manage. Some teachers just have a way of making the parents feel like they’re also in need of disciplining, at those little meetings.

The teacher will say something like: “Your daughter has been using the F word in class lately.”

Me: “Aw, crap.”

Teacher: “Do you know where she might have learned that word?”

Me, shrugging and smiling innocently: “I don’t have a fucking clue where she could have picked that up. Do you, honey?”

The Dad: “Fucked if I know.”