That is what I wrote on the sign out book at school today.

A totally inaccurate statement that pissed me off and set me off mumbling all the way to the car, my baby holding my hand and happy to have a half day off school.

Today was a public holiday in Victoria. But because we live in the ‘country’ some places have the day off, others don’t.

DH and I had the day off work, but the kids had school. Boo’s school had a Melbourne Cup themed day with races and fashions on the field after an early lunch.

But Boo only had aiding till 12.30pm. And Boo doesn’t cope with me being his ‘aide’ cause it is too confusing for him. At school C (his aide) and P (the teacher) are in charge. I am the boss when the bell goes.

It has taken a year to get him to understand this. ‘Cause the kid needs firm rules.

So today, while all the races were on, the kids wandering around school with any freak job able to just walk in the school grounds unchallenged, Boo was expected to fend for himself.

The child that eats dirt and half chewed apples off the ground and ROCKS for fucks sake and has a penchant for wandering off alone was expected to just sit quietly and understand what to do.

And all of a sudden develop the ability to know not to wander off with a stranger that offers him food.

So there I am at the office filling out the sign out book and the Vice Principal walks out. He looks pissed. Well I am more fucking pissed.

‘So A’ I call out ‘What should I write as the reason I am taking Boo out of school this afternoon?’

He saunters over, thinking I want a friendly chat. Normally we have a good relationship but today I am pissed at him and ready to stab the new principal in the head with the pen. The new principal has decreed that if an aide is away for one day they will not be replaced.

Boo’s aide now calls me in the morning if she is too sick to come to school so I can keep Boo home. Fucking Arsehole. He is saving money and I have to take time off work….. or worse, C comes in when she should be home sick.

Again, as always, I digress.

A is standing next to me, smiling down. A is a rather attractive man, but today all I can see is his devil horns….

‘I need to write something here, and seeing he isn’t sick and doesn’t have a doctors appointment, I don’t know what to write’ I say, knowing he has no idea where this is going.

‘Oh’ his face clouds over for a moment ‘Why are you taking him home?’

‘Well, he has no aiding for this afternoon. P is judging and C is in Mr S’s room. So no supervision’

‘He will be alright won’t he’

What the FUCK!!!!! This man has been in every freaking meeting about Boo since day dot. He was there during the discussion when Boo was doing nudie runs in the halls, when he took to playing in the urinals, when he disappeared during a class with a sub teacher, when he got a 4 year old in a head lock cause he was playing ‘The Simpsons’, when he ate so many freaking ROCKS in the playground that our toilet was backed up………

‘No, A, he will not.’ I said through gritted teeth while Boo was happily laying on the floor at my feet giggling for no apparent reason.

‘Oh, well write Parental Decision then’ he shot back at me.

‘Fine.’ I muttered back and shot him one of my infamous glares, the glare that makes small children cry and Emo teenagers make a facial expression other than a scowl ‘We will talk about this later in the week’

And I helped Boo off the floor and swung around and strode out the door. Shit, I wish I had heels on today, it would have been so much more dramatic.

As I am walking out the door, A calls out

‘Have a wonderful day Kelley!’

He knows I am pissed. He knows that I am the reasonable parent. I am the parent that goes out of her way to make sure that everything is fair. I know that my boy is hard work and will do anything and everything to help the school, teachers and for Christsakes the other kids cope with Boo being there. I help out at the school and do things at home without batting an eyelid. Ask for help, I am there.

I am his dream fucking parent and he has pissed me off.

And he has known me long enough to know, you don’t piss me off. Not when it comes to my boy.

A, you better bring a spare pair of pants when I decide we are having that meeting. You will need ’em buddy.

Oh and tissues. Lots of tissues. I betcha you ain’t so pretty when you cry.

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 I wrote this this afternoon.  While I was white hot with anger.  I considered deleting it, but thought better of it.  I considered toning it down a bit, but thought, no.  So will I regret it after hitting the publish button? Perhaps……

*****************

I am sitting here shaking with anger.

Oprah is on  and that fucking moron Jenny McCarthy is spouting her sons recovery story.

I want to reach through the TV and wring her fucking neck.

Do you REALISE the damage you are doing!

MOMMY FUCKING INSTINCT.  If she says that one more time I will lift the hulking enormous television and throw it through the window.

So, Ms McCarthy, all the parents without ‘recovered’ kids (apparently Autism is like being hit by a bus, you recover and then you have a little boo boo – WTF!?!?!) just don’t have MOMMY INSTINCT. MI for short.  I am sure she has trademarked that one.
OMG.  I just don’t love my kid enough.

My son is GFCF by default. LOOOOOOOOONG before the Autism was diagnosed he was milk free, LOOOOONG before I heard of the ‘autism diet’ we were trialling gluten free.

My kid did ABA, speech, OT, no artificials etc etc, but my kid is still Autistic.  He will always be.  The shit and toothpaste all over my walls is freaking testament to that.

But if I had MI ™ and a little more love for my child, he would be cured.

Oh Jenny.  You, my dear, are delusional.  Sitting there with your Pob (just like Miss Posh) talking about your son being broken In. Front. Of. Him.

I look at that kid and I CAN SEE THE AUTISM!  I thought he was recovered.  I hear the echolalia.

‘He says the most amazing Budda things’?  You fucking idiot.  He is mimicking.  It is echolalia.

He is clearly maturing.  It is clear that the therapy has made a difference.  ABA does that.

Now she is talking about the MMR, apparently she had a little voice tell her it would cause Autism.  Apparently the seizure her son had  was preceded by the ‘little voice’.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

My phone is going to be ringing off the hook tonight.  I will be inundated with people asking me to help them recover their kids.  Any one have Ms McCarthy’s phone number?

My son was diagnosed with Classic Autism.  Classic, no language, screaming day and night.  I was told he would never have functional language or toilet train.  I was told to take him home and love him.

He is now doing amazingly.  Thanks to therapy.  Thanks to hard freaking work.  But he still has Autism.  He will always have Autism.

He is not recovered.  You cannot recover from something that is – in my view – an inherited neurological condition.  Minimize the  extreme behaivours, work on other issues.  Some kids will respond to therapy, some will not.  Regardless of how much MI ™ their mothers have.  Regardless of how much they love their child.

I read a book once that the mother basically beat her child every day and then sent him to boarding school.  Now he is ‘recovered’.  Do we endorse that shit?  No.

I am sure that diet, supplements, therapy etc etc etc have helped numerous kids.  Maybe even thousands.  But in my opinion (remember I deal with parents with children on the spectrum every day so I have some experience) if your child is ‘cured’ then they were never on the spectrum in the first place.

The other chick, Holly Robinson whatever.  Her I like.  I agree with every thing SHE said.

But that McCarthy freakshow needs to be gagged.  But first bitch slapped.

And Oprah.  How could you.

Now excuse me, that child that I obviously didn’t love enough to cure needs me to go and wipe his arse.

Freaking telemarketers. They are really doing my head in lately.

I know they are just doing their job. DH did a little telemarketing years ago to supplement our income, so I know how hard it is. But some of them are just total arseholes and deserve my disdain.

Ring Ring, trills the phone interrupting my blogging fun.

‘Hello Mrs XXX how are you today?’ singsongs a heavy accented man,

‘Fine’ I cagily reply while bill due dates fly through my mind.

‘Well Mrs XXX’ he continues, getting my name terribly wrong and my mother-in-law spins in her grave, ‘My name is Steve and I am calling from……..’

My mind wanders, his voice gets more excited. Steve from some middle eastern call centre thinks he has got himself a winner.  Something about my winning a holiday or a mobile phone or somesuch.

‘Look Steve, I am really busy right now so sorry I am not interested.’

‘Oh but Mrs abortion-of-my-last-name-sending-the-old-girl-spinning, you get a yada yada yada…… I’m not listening again…

(DH always said he wanted a woman with a short attention span, well it came with something else but I won’t divulge that lest getting all the women reading jealous….)

‘Steve, I am not interested, thanks for your time’

Click.

I hate doing that.  But sometimes they won’t get the message.

Ring Ring…

‘Hello?’

‘Hello Mrs abortion-of-my oh you remember the rest’

‘Why hello STEVE!  Didn’t I just hang up on you?’

Click.

And I have a short attention span?

But my absolute favourite of all time:

Ring Ring as I am running out the door to pick up Boo from school.  I HAVE to be standing out the front of his classroom at 3.25 exactly when he comes out to get his bag.  Otherwise *shudder* you don’t want to know.

‘Hello Mrs last-name-wrong-old-lady-gyrating’ coos a sweet grandmotherly voice.

‘Hello’ I reply getting sucked in by her sweet Nanna voice

‘How are you today’ she coos down the phone line, shit this woman is good

‘Fabulous thanks!  I am just running out the door to pick up my son’

‘Oh, well I will only take a minute of your time.  I am calling today to ask for your help, kids with (insert condition here, I don’t want to name it) need your help and support. Today all I am asking is for you to take a book of raffle tickets at $20 a ticket…….’

‘Look, I am totally supportive of your cause but I have a child with Autism and I am raising funds for that, so I am sorry I can’t help you today.  Good luck though’ I say, thinking wish we had someone like her for our fundraising.

Her voice is noticeably cooler ‘Well that is all fine and dandy, but you don’t understand.  This is much much worse than Autism!’

I stop midair, coat half on.  This particular condition is mild compared with what I deal with everyday.

‘Are you a doctor?’

‘No’ coolness is escalating to ice-cubes-down-your-undies cold

‘So you must be a psychologist then?’

‘No, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.  You need to support these parents as you are lucky that your child is healthy.  What would you do if your child got sick?’ retorts the Ice Queen

Fuck me dead.  This woman is unbeliveable.

‘Well I would do what I am doing now.  Would you care to purchase  a book of my raffle tickets’

Click.

Biatch hung up on ME!

And then I was late picking up Boo.  And all hell broke loose.

I saw this last night.

I have no words.

I feel sick

Read this from Freak Parade. I emailed Mel and asked her if I could link to her cause she says it much better than me.

My post would be full of expletives.

And death threats.

Little Johnny made an announcement yesterday. His doppleganger Kevin bobbed his head in agreement.

Autism is baaaaad. Govt is gooooood. Lets chuck some money at early intervention.

A4 worked hard for this. Our convenor Bob was there. Johnny quoted Bob’s research, and made it sound like his own. Typical.

None of the money chucking will benefit us. It is not going to get our house back. It’s not going to be retrospective and bring back our lifestyle and sanity after spending more time and money than any parent should have to spend. And any sibling should have to sacrifice.

But believe it or not, that is not my whinge for the day.

Today’s bitterness is still directed at the Govt, but it has to do with caring for Boo.

The Australian Govt has a program where if your youngest child is at school and you get govt benefits you need to study or get a job. Fair ’nuff I say. But perhaps they need to have someone take a little look at the rules.

I am officially a carer for both my son and husband. I don’t get a payment or anything for DH but since his breakdown I am recognised as his carer as well. And I work. I have scaled back my career aspirations and now work part time while Boo is at school. I had plans and was being groomed for something ‘more’ in my dept. That all disappeared when Boo was diagnosed. I am not bitter about that, I have a more important job now. My Boo is my life, right now he is asleep (finally!) at my feet on a mattress on the loungeroom floor. Snoring lightly, his hair all tousled and beautiful face poking out from his doona cocoon. My forever 2 year old.

But I get pissed off when I get hauled into Centrelink to justify my existence and forced to go to ‘back to work’ training. I am freaking working you morons! Someone please press a fucking button and leave me alone!

Then the pollies get their mugs on TV and say ‘oh the poor carers they have it so hard, they are saving the govt millions of dollars every year and we need to support them yada yada yada’ – dont piss in my pocket buddy, I have enough to do washing shit and toothpaste off the walls without you giving me extra laundry to do. And I am sure your urine don’t smell like flowers.

Now that DH is easing back into work we are in trouble.

You see, I can get respite (a qualified carer coming into our home) to go to the hairdressers or have a massage or go to the movies, but I can’t get it if I am working. If I am working I need to find alternate support. Boo cannot go into child care because of his disability, they don’t have the ‘facilities’ or ‘support’ or fucking ‘clue’ here. There is no where to go.

So I have to ask my parents. My parents that are getting older. My father who is legally blind and has many other difficulties due to the pituitary cancer which caused his blindness, the hip that he is waiting to be replaced and the fact that he is in remission from Lymphoma, my mother who is not only his carer but has health issues of her own including lyphodema after surviving breast cancer. (Yeah, remember yesterday saying I didn’t need someone else wishing me bad luck, that is not the half of my parents dramas) One of them needs to come and care for my child that either my father can’t see or my mother is shorter than so I can go and pay my way in society.

Apparently I should ask my 15 year old to care for her brother. Apparently I should ask her to take responsibility for Boo and give up her life for him. It is bad enough that the girls know that they will have to take over the care of their brother once I have gone for the long nap, I am not asking them to take sole responsibility for him while their parents go and try and earn a wage.

So WTF am I supposed to do Johnny? While you are paying lip service to our plight, I am raising revenue for you in your govt office and caring for 4 of your citizens (my parents need a lot of help too), raising 2 potential tax payers to pay for your retirement while my brother is off fighting your war so you can save face with your mate George.

I have been keeping up with my side of the bargain.

You want me to work, I want to work because it makes me feel like I am something other than a carer.

So how about a little support instead of a pat on the head. It messes up my hair.