Meet The Bearded Avenger

So my husband has this pretty darn fantastic job, and does lots of properly important things while at work - real getting-your-hands-dirty-but-making-a-difference-at-the-same-time kind of stuff. But I'm not allowed to talk about his job here on the blog (or even to go beyond the rudimentaries while speaking to 'real people').  This is why I've decided to call him The Bearded Avenger.  First, because he has a beard and is therefore automatically upgraded to 'wise' and 'learned' and 'too lazy to shave one annual leave stretch about five years ago'.  Second, the man has all those cool work secrets.  Third, because my first choice of Double Oh Heaven seemed somewhat on the flip side of Too Much Information.

How I wish I had permission to talk about his job! Nothing too specific, of course.  But hooley-dooley - I could branch out into a whole separate blogging niche just from this one subject alone.  Alas - I'm stuck making vague comments about how proud I am and how much I appreciate the intricacies of the work he does.  Even though The Job does impact on family life - sometimes significantly - when I think of the alternative, that there were no folk doing the job that TBA does, I start to feel decidedly sick to my stomach.  So yay for the Hubster.

However - there are many that would think TBA's job isn't that great, or that the pay isn't worth the crapola that is shovelled his way daily by Those Above.  There are even Some People in the greater community who are, let's just say, "unreceptive" to the work of this particular field.

Phooey to them, I say.  It doesn't even matter what TBA does for a crust.  He could clean out porta-potties for a living and I'd still be proud of him (because let's face it - the next time you're at a carnival with three kids in tow and every one of them has had too much to drink and you're about eleventy-four miles away from the nearest restrooms, you'll be pretty darn glad for Mr Porta-Potty).  It reminds me of this awesome quote:

If you are called to be a street sweeper, sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. Sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, 'Here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well' (Martin Luther King Jr)

Now how can you go wrong with a sentiment like that?

When Autism Kicks Your Butt

Most of the time I think I cope remarkably well with the day-to-day struggles autism brings to our lives. At this stage, nine years post-diagnosis, we're old hands at the routine. Unnatural (but sort of cute) obsession with game shows? Check. Reminding him to pull his shirt out of his shorts after going to the toilet so he doesn't look like that disabled kid? Check. Standing firm during tantrums and fussing and back-chatting and oh-my-gosh-kill-me-now puberty? Oh heck yeah - check, check, CHECK.

But every now and then, it stops being an ordinary part of our day. Every now and then, and over the smallest of things, I find myself tearing up.

This is not easy.
This is not standing proud in the midst of adversity like a blond-braided, horn-wearing Thor-dette.
This is quietly falling apart.

It might not be for long - maybe just a couple of hours - and it may not be very visible, but it happens. I try to keep moments like these largely hidden because honestly? Ninety-five percent of the time I'm fine, I don't take crap, I don't suffer ignorant idiots and I sure as heck won't hesitate to take an uninformed person down a peg or two if the occasion arises. I fight for my son, and I fight hard. I just need a break from fighting against him sometimes.

He can't help it, I know. This is just him, wrapped in confusion and hormones. I do not consider him to 'have' autism. Autism is just a part of him, of who he is - it colours every thought, every emotion, every relationship that he has - but you can't separate him from it in the way that you can with measles or a bad cold. I don't think he will be cured (for the record, I consider autism a neurological disorder, with a screwy-gene trigger, and not something he 'caught' from vaccinations - I respect your opinion, please let me keep mine). Though I hope and pray that autism gains more acceptance as time goes on - and not just the puzzle ribbon-wearing, benefit dinner-hosting, support-you-from-a-distance acceptance, but the real, solid, I'll-be-friends-with-your-son-in-the-school-playground-even-while-the-cool-kids-watch type - people need to know that it is not always like this. There's a whole group of us who wait for a quiet moment away from being 'Mum' and just cry. And then we strap on the armour, pick up our spears, and go out to fight another bear tomorrow. We aren't superwomen. We are not impenetrable. And most of the time the bad stuff hurts like a b*tch.

It was easier when he was younger, in a way. A fussy four year old isn't an anomaly - but a fussy 12 year old who is as tall as his mother behaving like a four year old certainly is. Though he has since outgrown the full-blown nuclear meltdown stage (an autism meltdown is a wonder to behold, truly), he still has odd behaviours. He still stims (though much reduced, his hand flapping will never fully leave him), he still speaks oddly and occasionally gets confused with the meanings of words and structure of sentences, he still gets in your face about whatever his current obsession is. When you talk to him for any length of time, as awesome as he is, it's very clear that he is affected. This is who he is.

But we are lucky. We are so very, very lucky. Some days I have to work hard at reminding myself of this, but we are. He had no functional speech until the age of four, but we got there. He wasn't toilet trained until his sixth birthday, but damned if we didn't conquer that mountain too. He does not have an intellectual disability. We are yet to see - and will hopefully never see - seizures. We have had great, selfless special education teachers along the way - true angels on earth.

But it doesn't stop the worry. Nor the ignorance seemingly built-in to a large percentage of the population. And though people will still continue to tell you you're doing fine, that you should be proud of such a well-adjusted kid, that you're a great mother - you'll still find it hard to believe. After all, you can't be there all the time to explain him, to protect him, to speak for him, to applaud him. There will be hurting, tears, bullying. And you'll tell yourself every day that you need to cut the rope, to let him go off and be hurt because while all that is happening he is growing and learning and accepting and maybe along the way (you desperately hope) others are growing and learning and accepting too. But this is the most painful thing in the world for you to imagine because all you can see ahead is an enormous blazing fire, and what you're expected to do amounts to dumping your child right in the middle of it and expecting him to fight his way out with no scars.

It's insanity. It's the opposite of what is implanted into every nerve-fibre the second you become a parent. It feels like you're feeding him to the wolves. Willingly.

I know - or rather, I hope - that he will be fine. I repeat this to myself every day like a mantra - he'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine. And though the support of friends and family will follow you, and though for every bad day there are ten good ones lined up to take its place, there's always doubt. Maybe he won't be fine, comes the eventual whisper.

And alongside it, the faint smell of smoke.

Return Of The Man Cold

It's April, and for those down in southern Australia, it signals the beginning of the truly cool weather as winter guns it's engine and prepares to catapult us into the scariest stretch of the year of all - THE FLU SEASON.

Dum-dum-daaaaaah......

I would like to say that come wintertime I am blessed with ample opportunity for joyful wifely service in the care and nurturing of my dear, lovely husband when he takes ill (which he is prone to do, two or three times a season).  I would like to say that, but I can't.  Because this is him:

This just doesn't get old for me :)

And then I remembered something I'd written a few years back, during The Man Cold of '07...

(*sung to the tune of "Good King Wenceslas" - don't ask me why I thought of this in April!)

Good wives all around the world
Prepare yourselves for cleaning
When the bowls lay all about
Waiting for the heaving
Brightly shone the bathroom light
Though the air was fo-ul
"Honey, can you come here quick, I think I need a to-ow-el!"

Some will come but most will run
You look like Death on To-oast
With bloodshot eyes and dripping nose
Don’t try to play the ho-ost
Broadly grinned the wise doctor
His pockets lined with go-old
And you’ll be wishing for the days
Before this blasted cold!

Is it too late to head to Fiji for the winter?

A Meatless Sausage Roll And No Tofu In Sight? You Betcha!

You know when you stumble across a recipe that is so easy, so great and so kid-friendly that you have to share it with the world?

We made these last night and they were so ridiculously easy its almost embarrassing. They're sausage rolls made without sausage mince. Or meat of any kind for that matter (and no tofu either). And not one child I've fed these to can tell the difference. I didn't hold out much hope that the end result would be edible, let alone appetizing, but I was wrong - they taste fantastic.

Cottage Rolls
Makes 24

1 cup low fat cottage cheese
3 eggs
1 onion, finely diced
1 tbsp soy sauce
1/2 cup grated carrot
1/2 cup breadcrumbs
1 cup quick-cooking oats (the ones that are chopped up a bit)
3 sheets puff pastry
1 tbsp milk
1 tbsp poppy or sesame seeds (optional)

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 200ºC (375ºF-ish). Line two trays with baking paper.
   
2. Combine cottage cheese, eggs, onion and soy sauce in a bowl.
   
3. Add carrot, oats and breadcrumbs (I ended up using about 1 cup of breadcrumbs total - you don't want the mixture to be too 'wet') and mix well.
   
4. Cut each pastry sheet in half to form two rectangles. Heap the mixture onto the middle of each pastry rectangle, forming into a log shape as you go. Leave a 2cm (1 inch) border of pastry all around. Brush these pastry edges with the milk. Roll up to enclose filling. Cut each log into four pieces.
   
5. Place on a lined baking tray and repeat with remaining pastry and mixture. Brush tops with milk and sprinkle with poppy/sesame seeds if desired.
   
6. Bake for 35 mins or until the pastry has puffed and become golden brown. Serve with tomato ketchup for dipping.

These would be a great alternative to the usual high-fat-nutritionally-devoid fare served at children's parties. The pastry still contributes a moderate amount of fat but the payoff is that this recipe is cheap to produce, is vegetarian, and the kids won't notice they're eating something healthy! You could also add some other grated vegetables to the mixture, such as zucchini, for that added nutrient boost.

Seriously? These are awesome - my kids devoured them.

The Family Mixing Bowl

I bought a mixing bowl today. Okay, so it was a really big salad bowl, but you only know that because I told you. It’s a mixing bowl, okay? Right.

I was looking for a large, solid, crockery-style bowl in which I imagined mixing copious batches of Mama-ish delights. You know, cookies, cakes and brownies. All the good things in life.

I wanted something cutesy, maybe with a pretty little pattern on it. I imagined myself poised over it, apron firmly tied around my waist (should I mention that I don’t actually own an apron?) and wooden spoon in hand, spreading the love. Or the icing, at least.



Turns out, ‘cutesy’ was oh so last season daahling. (Yes, actual words from a kitchenware salesperson today!)

I looked everywhere. The best offerings I found weren’t half as big as I wanted, and the worst was a mustard/baby poop-coloured monstrosity the likes of which would have graced my grandmother’s kitchen. Which is okay, if you’ve inherited such an item and have the memories of Grandma’s apple crumble to back it up. When you are forced to buy poop-coloured kitchenware...well, its just sad.

In the end I found a perfectly plain crockery salad bowl. It didn’t look cute at all. It looked bland. It looked, well, boring. And it was made to house salad. I’ve never made a salad that big in my life. I drove home lamenting the pseudo-loss of my old fashioned (but trendily modern at the same time) pastel-coloured, grooves-in-the-sides piece of culinary beauty. You know the ones I'm talking about.

But then when I got home I looked at plain, simple ol’ mixing bowl sitting on the benchtop. And thought to myself, wow, what a blank canvas. How many sticky little fingers are going to slide along the bottom of that doughed-up bowl and make a dash to a waiting mouth before Mama sees them? How many batches of Fudge Brownies are going to cycle from bowl to oven? What about the meatballs and pasta salads? Or my mother-in-law’s Anzac Biscuits?

Because a mixing bowl isn't just a bowl...it's a legacy.

The Dignity Of Risk

Just a little something to contemplate on a Saturday night...

The Dignity Of Risk

What if you never got to make a mistake?
What if your money was always kept in an envelope where you couldn't get it?
What if you were never given a chance to do well at something?
What if your only chance to be with people different from you was with your own family?
What if the job you did was not useful?
What if you never got to make a decision?
What if the only risky thing you could do was act out?
What if you couldn't go outside because the last time you went it rained?
What if you took the wrong bus once and now you can't take another one?
What if you got into trouble and were sent away and you couldn't come back because they always remember your 'trouble'?
What if you worked and got paid $0.46 an hour?
What if you had to wear your winter coat when it rained because it was all you had?
What if you had no privacy?
What if you could do part of the grocery shopping but weren't allowed because you couldn't do all of the shopping?
What if you spent three hours every day just waiting?
What if you grew old and never knew adulthood?

What if you never got a chance?

From Linda Stengle's book, Laying Community Foundations For Your Child With A Disability.

April Fool's Day Can Bite Me

I woke up this morning feeling like ninjas had injected flu goop through my eyeballs and into my sinuses while I slept. I want to sew and cut and create today but I have a slightly-more-than-sneaking suspicion that I'll be alternating between blowing my nose violently until my ears bleed and dropping comatose onto the couch (although the upside to being sick is that I get to visit with Mr Darcy, my standard 'feel good go-to')  Thank God the kids are in school, or they'd be eating gruel for lunch.

I'm not a good patient.  I think that's because I'm rarely sick and tend to spent my winter months playing nursemaid to the four other people who live in this house and eat my food. In the past week alone I've had one kid off school for three days with a cough that could rival any chain-smoking biker, and another kid away for one day with a migraine that set off a fever and vomiting (or was it the fever that set off the migraine? Or the vomiting that set off the fever? Aughh, who can tell?) And the way things work around here, I calculate I have approximately four hours until DH begins planning his own funeral due to complications following a Man Cold.

So yeah.  April Fool's on me.

I'm going to go drown my sorrows in a bucket of hot tea now...