Brown Showers Brings Trained Bowels

Yesterday Miss Chattyshoes barged in on Scott while he was in the bathroom and thrust her chunky little hand into his urine stream. He seemed surprised by this; I was not.

I suppose around two-years-old is the time when the little ones start to get obsessed with all things potty. I wouldn't have known this with Mr. Busypants, who had no interest in any of it. In fact, he had no interest at three, four, or five. But you have to draw the line somewhere because diapers are stinking expensive.

A few weeks after Mr. Busypants turned five, we finally had it. Changing diapers for two kids had to end. I mean, isn't that one of the perks of having your kids four and a half years apart?

Scott and I had just come back from our first getaway from both kids, I mean, with each other. Five blissful days in Breckenridge and I saw the yellow writing in the snow: The diapers had to go. So when we got home, Scott and Alex said goodbye to the last "Cars" diaper and the next morning we went all underwear on him.

I knew he could hold his urine, but to date he hadn't gone #2 on the pot, so all week I anticipated what every mother looks forward to: scraping and rinsing poop out of the undies after a missed attempt--if getting to the toilet was even an attempt on his part.

Seven days passed and Mr. Busypants clenched his little cheeks into constipation. He didn't know how to poop on the toilet and he knew he shouldn't poop in his underwear. What's a kid to do?

We snuck up on him unsuspectingly. To this day I feel bad about this, but we had no choice. With a tackle, we went all suppository on him then rushed him to the bathroom. I realized our poor planning as I struggled to open the Take Along Thomas covered bridge that was taking a long time to break into. Meanwhile the liquid glycerin gold took care of business as the brown showers started to pour.

One poop on the toilet was all he needed. Daytime potty training. Check.

As for Miss Chattyshoes, she's so into the potty she can hardly contain her excitement (or her loads, for that matter). Just yesterday at Miss Sassypants' house, the dynamic duo took turns getting their post-lunch, pre-nap change. Miss Sassypants shouted with excitement, "Poop in the potty" as I chiseled the sticky mess off Miss Chattyshoes' chubby cheeks. The girls are hardly able to contain their excitement as I flushed their latest accomplishment (they share everything) down the toilet.

"Bye-bye poop," they wave with their little hands millimeters from the flushing pool. I understood that excitement just over a year ago when I said "Bye-bye Cars diapers."

Related Links:
Jorie Costanza: Climber, Antagonizer, Garbage Eater
Black Eyes, Diaper Changes, and Chocolate Easter Eggs
Public Urination in Boca

Ocean Wonders

Mr. Busypants has always been fond of the Ocean. Here's his latest work of art. Notice the angry, skinny man in the coconut shower on the island. Those naughty coconuts!

Mr. Busypants' Art Archive
Pretzel Art
Puzzle Maker
Dinosaur Book

Jorie Costanza: Climber, Antagonizer, Garbage Eater

Having my firstborn diagnosed with autism, I can say that raising a neurotypical (NT) feels anything but typical.

For me, a typical just-under-two toddler stays where you put him and only explores the room he's in. He creates minor annoyances like throwing all his food and his sippy cup on the floor when he's done, but he does not protest going inside, going to bed, or his mother going insane.

Miss Chattyshoes does not fit this description.

Take climbing, for example. Miss Chattyshoes makes it her personal mission to lean against and hike up her stinky little hoof onto anything she can pull herself up on. Her upper body strength and determination is at least a year ahead of Mr. Busypants, who at this age needed me to help him climb each level at the McDonalds playland. Whether she's standing on the kitchen desk re-arranging our bills and relocating our car keys or using the dishwasher door as her own personal foot stool to access the knife drawer and leftover breakfast, Miss Chattyshoes needs no help in the kitchen.

If she wants to play with water, she'll just pull a bar stool over to the sink; if she wants the goldfish crackers on the third shelf from the top, she'll embed her little toes into the wire shelves and start climbing; and someday, when she wants to swing from the light fixtures over the island, well, I'm sure she'll have no problem figuring out how to do that either.

Climbing isn't her only specialty. She love to push peoples buttons as well. Take her brother, for example. She watches him board the bus every day, sweetly waving and chatting: "Ba-bye Aex. Ba-bye" with a horizontal wave. As soon as he's gone, she'll grab his special blanket and quietly congratulate herself for defying her older sib. Almost daily I'll find her running down the hallway with that blanket, occasionally peeking over her shoulder to be sure she's been spotted so that the yelling can begin. When Mr. Busypants is at school, she'll even take a nap with it, secretly hope that he figures it out when he gets home. Oh, the hunger for power starts early in life.

In the car, she'll "sweetly" offer him food (that she knows he doesn't want.) The conversation will escalate with each offering.

Little arm extends.
"No Joran," he politely declines.
Little arm extends again.
"Nooo Joran" he anxiously states.
Little arm extends again.
"Jooorrrraaaannn! I do not want to eat that!!!!!!"

She just laughs and keeps up the charade until one of us shouts out the proverbial "knock it off you two."

But her "innocent" provoking isn't exclusive to her older brother. When she's with her best friend Miss Sassypants, she will purposefully steal her friend's Nuk, watching intently with her enormous blue eyes, waiting quietly with a crocked smile for the screeching to begin. She's always kind and gives it back immediately--but that's only so she can take it and re-antagonize her friend. And this isn't just fun with Nuks; it works well with sippy cups, baby dolls, even shoes. If you want it, she'll torment you with it.

So different from Mr. Busypants, whose philosophy was "you want it? Take it. I'll get something else."


Picking out clothes is another area of contention that she's developing before her second birthday. It is not uncommon for her to insist on an outfit that is the opposite of what I've picked. My favorite Miss Chattyshoes combination to date includes a Princess Pull-up under a flowered onesie, which is under a pair of her brother's Sponge Bob underwear. What a fashionista!

Probably the subject to date that we fight most about is food. There's nothing more satisfying (to her) than running her yogurt-covered hands through her hair after a bath. Digging through my purse for a cherry cough drop and sucking on it through the wrapper always puts a smile on her cheeky face; she even hands it to me happily, knowing that once again, she's bested me.

But most irritating of all food incidents is the garbage picking.

For New Year's Eve, we went to a neighbor's house: it was all families with kids of similar ages. Scott brought Miss Chattyshoes into the bathroom to change her diaper, which exploded, seeping with stinky, goopy chocolate pudding. While he is bagging the smelly concoction, Jorie Costanza digs into the bathroom garbage and pulls out a half-eaten brownie from the top and starts eating chocolate of a more edible variety--barely. Scott turns around to a chocolate smile, ear to ear. She knows, once again, that she's getting a rise out of someone.

Yes, raising a child with autism has its struggles, but in my house, I'm confident that my NT child will be my life-long challenge.

Related Links

Monkey See, Jorie Do: The Proof is in the Pudding

Black Eyes, Diaper Changes, and Chocolate Easter Eggs

Say Hello Chuckie Sue

Pretzel Art

Mr. Busypants + a bag of pretzels + imagination, determination, and a little bit of obesssion = Pretzel Art

After Mr. Busypants successfully completed this self-appointed task, he enthusiastically and brought me into the dining room to share and explain his creation.

"Look mom! That's a church, and my house, and Jonathan's house, and a trampoline, and a fence and a swingset and an arm with fingers," he proudly exclaimed.

(And I promise, he's never seen Nightmare on Elm Street, which is what I think of when I see the Freddy Kruger hand.)

For other art, check out Dinosaur book, and Add Puzzle-Maker to His Resume.

Black Eyes, Diaper Changes, and Chocolate Easter Eggs

Easter was pretty low-key at our house. Everyone has been sick, so we ordered pizza. And yes, I am aware that it's totally tacky to order pizza on the day of our Lord's resurrection.

The celebrations started Saturday morning at a neighbor's backyard Easter egg hunt. When I got home from work (I taught a morning English class), Mr. Busypants busily made plans to host his own hunt.

"My friends find eggs in my trees?" he'd ask me.
"Next year we'll do an Easter egg hunt here," I told him.

Easter morning, Miss Chattyshoes had a little drama because she specifically picked out a flowered onesie that she apparently HAD to wear. There's nothing like dressing an enraged toddler in her Easter best, although it helped that her new little white mary janes from Target had heels that clicked on the hardwood floor.

More drama ensued later in the afternoon after lunch when in an effort to laughingly sneak away from Daddy's grasp, Miss Chattyshoes tripped and banged her face on the coffee table. She woke up the next morning with a nice, puffy shiner.

This was not the first black and blue mark of the holiday weekend. On Thursday, the school nurse called to inform me that Mr. Busypants, in a chasing game of his own, smacked into the playground equipment and sustained a rather large bonk on his forehead that grew over the weekend. Days later he has a bruise on his forehead; if it were Ash Wednesday it might look like he had been sacramentally anointed.

My poor, battered kids pretty much matched.

But a head injury did not stop Mr. Busypants from revisiting the egg hunt that he was dying to host in his own backyard. I finally handed him a basket full of jellybean-filled eggs and told him to "hide" them in the front bushes.

This satisfied him.

Monday mornings post-holiday are usually pretty rough, but this time, Mr. Busypants did alright. He eagerly dressed so he'd be allowed to eat French toast sticks and watch a little Pinocchio before school (an Easter basket treat and the latest moving-visual obsession).

The morning with Miss Chattyshoes ran less smoothly, in spite of the arrival of Miss Sassypants, her pint-sized mentor from across the street. Perhaps the irritating puffiness of her eye put her in a funk, but whatever the case, she was clingy all morning; I got absolutely nothing done.

Miss Chattyshoes certainly accomplished something, however. Because of the lack of sense of smell that is accompanying this awful head cold I've been nursing for over a week, I went into the morning diaper change blind and unprepared. As a result, a big stinking chocolate-covered Easter egg of her own rolled out of her diaper.

So (as I've done with Mr. Busypants many a times during his toddler years) I grabbed her by the ankles and carried her swaying little body upside down across the room to find the wipes, listening to her giggle as I observed her chocolate-covered crack; I picked up the package with my teeth and hauled her back to the family room.

What else could I do?

Later that morning, I came across of what was either an unwrapped cheap, waxy mini chocolate egg that the girls tore into earlier, or a tiny turd that somehow escaped. I looked down in horror, knowing that I had to pick it up and not knowing which it was.

Of course, I had to know, so I took a wiff. Thankfully it was the chocolate.

Related Links

Jorie Costanza: Climber, Antagonizer, Garbage Eater

Black Eyes, Diaper Changes, and Chocolate Easter Eggs

Say Hello Chuckie Sue

Add Puzzle Maker to His Resume

Last week Mr. Busypants came home from Boca. Out of his little Elmo suitcase he pulled a ziplock bag full of oddly cut pieces of cardboard with bright colors illuminating from it.

"What's that?" I asked.
"It's a city puzzle," he proudly replied.

I spent the next hour trying to put it together. This is as far as I got.

This puzzle was stinking HARD!

If you like these pics, check out Mr. Busypants' latest Dinosaur book.

Traveling with a child with autism (or any kid, for that matter)

Mr. Busypants is a seasoned flyer. He took his first flight when he was 9 months old. Being a nervous new mom, I didn’t know what to expect, so I prepared for the worst. The worst turned out to be a sleeping baby each way.

But we’re not all that lucky and I considered this as I prepared for our second trip, the queen mother of flights: Chicago to Hawaii.

Early that snowy, Wednesday morning, I dressed Mr. Busypants in a pair of dark, Old Navy jeans and a red Tommy Hilfiger Hawaiian shirt with white flowers. He strutted into the gate area at the airport as if to say, “Yeah, that’s right! I’m two and I’m on your flight.” The only thing left for fellow passengers to wonder was “Dear God, please don’t let him be sitting near me.”

In fact, initially we weren’t all seated together, even though we’d booked the tickets a year in advance. But I felt confident as I walked over to the single seat in our party of three. I told the unsuspecting couple that that middle seat belonged to Mr. Busypants, but that we’d be happy to trade seats with them if they wanted our two seats a few rows back.

No argument there.

The key to the long run of successful trips is that on every trip we’ve ever taken, from home to hotel, I put safeguards in place to make the trip run smoothly.

1. Mr. Busypants started pulling his own suitcase when he was four or five. It gives him a sense of independence and keeps his hands busy. It also keeps him focused on an important task: pulling his suitcase through the terminal and to the gate.
   
2. Kids love to pretend, so give I give Mr. Busypants a prop to pretend with. At the airport, what better prop then a toy airplane? They can be inexpensively purchased at the airport and many airlines sell their own brand. A couple years ago, I bought Mr. Busypants a mini airplane on a keychain; he still brings it on every trip.
   
3. Write a social story to explain the process of the trip, starting with how long you’ll be gone. For Mr. Busypants, we count bedtime diapers. He knows when his stash is gone, so is he. Also include details like essentials that should be packed in that little suitcase, security procedure (especially if you’re searched), the moving walkways, going to the bathroom before getting on the plan, waiting in line, take off and landing, how to behave on the plane, and taking turns getting off once you’ve reached your destination.
   
4. Remember that everyone has to remove jackets and shoes for security and it is possible your party will be searched. On my first solo flight with Mr. Busypants and Miss Chattyshoes, his baby sister, I got pulled aside and searched. Although men search men and women search women, I requested a woman for Mr. Busypants because I knew he’d be most comfortable with a woman.
   
5. Moving walkways rule! So do window seats.
   
6. Put together an airplane survival kit full of small, new toys that haven’t been seen before to keep interest. I put one together for our trip to Hawaii and it certainly kept him busy. Then he had lots of stuff to play with at the resort. Try for a new activity every 15 minutes. And remember, these toys don’t have to be costly. Go nuts at the dollar store.
   
7. The ever-so-obvious portable or laptop DVD player with plenty of things to watch. Think about purchasing noise-cancelling headphones as well.
   
8. Many kids with autism have strong opinions about the food they eat, so make sure you pack a variety of foods that he likes. Airport food is unpredictable, and unpredictable and autism rarely go well together.
   
9. Have a water bottle ready for landing. Sometimes the ears are sensitive to the change in altitude during landing. Gum works too, if those sensory issues allow it.
   
10. Be prepared yourself. If you're not anxious, he'll be less likely to be. This is an adventure, so sit back, relax, and enjoy your flight.

Related article: Flying with Autism brochure

Public Urination in Boca

Mr. Busypants and his dad have been at Grandma's Condo in Boca since Wednesday. Scott convinced his parents to pay for his plane fare, and in exchange, while grandma watches Mr. Busypants poolside, he would paint the condo. Meanwhile, Mr. Busypants is on his fourth trip to Florida within a year's time (kicking it off with GM's C in B late last April, Orlando last November, Marco "Marker" Island in February, and now this current trip).

We justify these trips with the following rationalizations: frequent flyer miles; free condo; Hilton points need to be used somewhere, might as well be Florida; and my absolute favorite, Mr. Busypants makes enormous gains in his language development whenever we go on vacation; therefore, we must go often.

Just before Mr. Busypants turned five we went to Orlando. During that week, we hauled down to Boca to see grandma's condo for the first time. At the time, the little man had never spoken a full phrase; the most he said were two-word combinations that he'd heard repeatedly. After a three-hour drive, we got to the condo, checked things out then visited the Gramma's Condo in Boca hot spots: Gumbo Limbo Nature Center, Sugar Sand Park and the Children's Science Explorium. By the end of the day Mr. Busypants said his first long phrase: Gammas - Condo - a Boca.

These three places are main attractions when we visit, but on our last visit we checked out the Green Cay Nature Center in Boynton Beach, which has a 1.5 mile elevated boardwalk over a landscape of wetlands. We made this visit last April about two months after Mr. Busypants finalized his day-time potty training.

About a half mile into our walk, Mr. Busypants realizes he needs to go potty. This kid's bladder is made of steel, but when he's finally gotta go, there's no wait time--it's drop-n-go.

On this walk, there's a stretch of dry land in a wooded area along the wetlands. The path is paved and the coast is clear, so I let him drop-n-go. He's thoroughly amused by his indentation in the dirt; he's marked his territory.

During Mr. Busypants' toddler years, we noticed that he and our long-haired black lab had a lot in common: they barely ate on vacation, fireworks freaked them both out, and when they were ready to hunker down somewhere they'd turn around three times and plop on the floor (ok, the last one's not true).

On this trip, I got word from dad that Mr. Busypants has yet another shared quirk with our dearly departed Kato. Returning to the Wetlands brought back memories. Having a year of training under his belt, Mr. Busypants has learned to hold it, and before starting the walk, Scott made sure they took care of business. Yet a half mile in to the wetlands, Mr. Busypants' beautifully autistic mega memory has him reminiscing about the last time he marked this spot. As they approached the location of his first commemorative public urination, Mr. Busypants felt the urge to revisit this year's first trip to Florida, announcing as they approach: "I gotta go potty."

The Perspective of a Guilty Parent

Life on the Spectrum recently wrote: "Someone said that they were tired of some parents with children who have autism, painting autism as if it were some sort of cool adventure. Autism is hard, depressing and sometimes unbearable."

That resonates. Mr. Busypants has mild autism, which translates into autism is only mildly a pain in my ass. Sometimes I feel guilty about his mildness. I'm stuck in the middle: my kid's not quite normal, but he's also not completely, hopelessly, overly frustratingly autistic. So while I deal with the "autistic moments," I do not deal with them at the great frequency that many others do.

Initially, the diagnosis and subsequent transitions from babyhood to toddlerland to preschoolville were hard, depressing, and sometimes unbearable. But now, while Mr. Busypants is in Kindergarten at least, the challenges are not much larger than the average parents' (different, but not more overwhelming). That may change, but I feel privileged to just love his mind and the unique perspective he brings to life. At least for now, I get to see it as a cool adventure.

To be honest, I fear my neuro-typical (NT) daughter, Miss Chattyshoes, drama queen that she already is, will be way harder to raise. She already has an opinion about everything. When she really, really wants something, she repeats herself, each time at a higher decibel, until only dogs in the neighborhood and the dolphins at the Brookfield Zoo are able to hear her.

I'm constantly being ordered to "sit down mama," as she plants her chubby cheeks (yes, the other ones) onto the couch and pats the spot right next to her. It's often frustrating because there's an endless list of things on my To Do list (like laundry, major clean up, grading, dishes, more major clean up, Facebook), but recently I decided to fall in line with the little drill sergeant. I mean, she'll only be little once. So now I'm getting caught up on all kinds of reading. It's distracting to do my Bible study with Elmo in the background, but somehow I manage.

As for Mr. Busypants, well, so far he is wildly navigating the line between having autism and being a regular kid. He has a lot going for him in that he wants to partcipate with others, but he also has obstacles less known to those who are neuro-typical. He's coping with the sensory bombardment that's magnified because he has autism, the obsessive/compulsive need for structure and repetition as he processes the world around him, and the emerging knowledge that he is indeed different.

Life is often a cool adventure (autism or not), but it's also hard, depressing and sometimes unbearable. The key is to take what you have (autism or not) and do the best you can with it, taking joy in the beautiful moments and sorrow in your losses. For what it's worth, God can take the crap-pile that is your life and turn it into something amazing--autism or not.