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Beautiful Monkey-Butt

Today, I opened our son’s door to find a winter wonderland.

He’s been more impulsive of late; we aren’t sure yet what’s going on.

Last night at Boy Scouts, his sometimes-nemesis-sometimes-partner-in-crime asked for water. Our boy complied with the request by dumping water on the kid’s head.

When Hubby asked him why he thought it was a good idea, he shrugged.

I didn’t think it was a good idea. I just thought of it, so I did it.

Reasons for his choices remain elusive, apparently even to him.

“I wanted to do it at the time but now I see it was a bad choice,” or “I don’t know why I did it,” are frequent answers when we question him after the fact.

His befuddlement appears legitimate.

Since Dad passed away, wild swings of his behavior have become the norm. One moment, he’s explaining detailed reasons for the failure of a World War II campaign. The next, he’s walking from the kitchen to the living room to deposit orange peels behind the couch because the trash can (in the kitchen) was too far away.

After he gets in trouble, he’s almost perfect for hours and incredibly logical about accepting consequences for his behavior. He’ll work with diligent focus on math, chores, apology notes or other remedial requirements.

If only he’d act as though he’d been in trouble BEFORE getting in trouble, he’d almost never be in trouble.

So.

Back to the beautiful snowy landscape.

In his room.

I opened the bedroom door to deposit some of his belongings and stopped, sniffing in amazement.

My young man’s bedroom actually smelled…not like his bedroom usually stinks smells.

Then I turned on the light.

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The pictures don’t even begin to accurately portray the amount of powder on EVERY SURFACE of his room.

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This summer, before Scout camp, I bought him a container of Anti Monkey Butt powder (yes, it’s really a thing) as recommended by the troop leaders. It resided in the top drawer of his dresser for almost an entire year.

And then.

This morning, it called his name. 

He said he just wanted to see what everything would look like with powder all over it.

Thought it might be pretty.

Turns out, it definitely smelled pretty.

It was EVERYwhere.

I can imagine his delight as the plastic can puffed white flakes into the air. He probably danced through the clouds as they fell (a theory supported by the powder Hubby brushed off the kid’s shirt this morning).

As usual, he attempted no argument when I handed down the sentence: vacuum and wipe every surface, shake bedding over the porch rail, put all belongings in their proper places.

He even put the sheets back on his bed without asking me for help—and I didn’t even tell him to do that.

Unbelievable.

Tomorrow, his in-home counselor will help us try to work with him through his thought process. I’m just hoping we can find a solution, because right now it feels like every time we turn around it’s “something else.”

So far, most of his urges have led to largely harmless actions, but we just never know what he’s going to do next.

It’s like he’s suddenly five. Or maybe three.

He carries chunks of concrete into the bathroom, hides yogurt wrappers and banana peels in his room (doubly odd since we reinforce that he can have healthy food any time he wants it), climbs things, wanders off, misbehaves at school hoping for a suspension (because then he can come home) and basically does whatever pops into his head.

A friend told me that when his spectrum son edged into puberty, his Autism went from minor inconvenience to a full-blown life-alteration. We’re not sure if this regression is due to the Autism, due to the grief, due to a need for a change in medication, or…

We just don’t know. And it’s frustrating. 

But, on the bright side—the side to which I cling in desperation—the pattern of the powder was very pretty

And even better: his room no longer smells like a baboon’s derriere. 

 

Great Expectations, Part 2

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Photo by Wayne S. Grazio

Albeit under a coat in the floor of the truck (who does that?) he was minding his own business when she started grabbing the coat away from him. He hissed and growled like a cat, trying to keep the coat, and she started laughing and pawing back at him. He started pulling at her laces, in cat fashion, when she decided she didn’t like him messing with her shoes and got angry.

By that time, he was wrapped around her ankles, still thinking it was a game. Knowing that I don’t have patience for physical contact between them (it generally degrades to a fight), she started screaming, “GET OFF ME!” as though he’d just jumped across the seat at her. (Which, let’s be real, does occasionally happen.)

And when I asked for an explanation, she described the situation as though she’d done nothing but wave her hands in the air to magically not really make it rain inside the truck cab.

“When I asked you what happened, did you tell me the truth?” I was seething, trying to hold it together. The boy had managed four straight days with no major incidents, and what she’d done might trigger him.

She is fully aware that if she gets him riled up before class, he has trouble de-escalating. On days she prods him in the morning, he tends to come home with many “red” marks and few (if any) “green” marks. Our rule is to keep the morning as calm as possible. 

She looked me straight in the eye. “No. I lied and said I’d only made it pretend rain because I wanted to stay out of trouble.”

I nodded. “And what’s the second reason you lied?”

Her chin jutted into the air a fraction of an inch. “I didn’t lie to try to get him in trouble.”

Really.

“So…if I thought you only made pretend rain and he attacked your feet, what would happen?”

“He would get in lots of trouble.”

I squinted at her. “But you didn’t lie to get him in trouble.”

“Nope.”

Sometimes conversations with this kid have me feeling like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. And then through a looking glass. And then took LSD.

“Ok. Let’s think this through. You lied, knowing that it would keep you out of trouble and he would be in a lot of trouble. Is that lying to get him in trouble?”

“Yes.” She shifted, unhappy with the turn of events.

I looked at the boy. “I don’t care what she does. You keep your hands off your sister. Got it?”

He nodded.

The bell rang and teachers lined the sidewalk to monitor incoming children.

I pointed at him. “This does NOT affect your day. Get it together before you reach the building. You’re on a four-day streak. Make it five good days.”

He nodded again. I told her we’d discuss it further after school, and they jumbled out the door.

Continued…

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