Dr. Seuss had it right when he said that "you'd be surprised how many ways I change on different colored days".  Other slogans adopted by the offspring in my domestic nest include: 'whatever floats your boat', 'take it or leave it', and 'ready or not, here i come'.  In lieu of a completely disastrous day followed by a rockin awesome day (obviously stemming from Fischer's behavior, mood, and inclinations), I've felt the urge to purge my thoughts on the difference between an awesome day verses a catastrophic day in our world.  (NOTE:  You may sense a tremor of a facetious tone, but mostly, I'm SO not kidding.)
An awesome day begins with a smile, hug, and "good morning mommy" before the demands for milk, tv, and breakfast begin.
A catastrophic day begins with "mom, gimmie milk and tv."

A- I only have to reheat my coffee 3 times AND I make it through an entire day without self-medicating or busting out the olive juice and shaker.
C- I am still reheating my initial cup of java at 3 in the afternoon, and I most definitely do not make it through the day without self-medicating and calling the spouse midday to remind him that I need more olive juice.

A- Fish plays independently most of the day, and I have to ask him if he wants me to play.  (NOTE: I still have to play the shit roles.)
C- Fish whines All. Day. Long.  No desire to play on his own.  Hangs all over me, and follows me around as though boredom is going to wreck his life.

A- He tells the general public that his butt is scratchy and his pants hurt his wiener.
C- He can't control his disgust and frustration and drops the "F-bomb" in the store.

A- I only have to resort to bribery twice, dolling out 1 sucker and 1 pack of fruit snacks.
C- Bribery and threats are the name of the game.  No amount of sweets or taking away of toys will matter. 

A- Fischer let's me know before he exits the bathroom that he needs me to wipe his butt. 
C- It not only escapes his mind to inform me about his number 2 business, but he takes it upon himself to wipe and play inspector gadget.  (Have you read Running With Scissors?...if you have, you know what I mean)

A- Fischer only asks the same question 5 or 6 times over the course of the day.
C- Fischer obsesses constantly over an upcoming event; he might ask the same question 40+ times throughout the course of the day. (This obsessive, anxiety ridden behavior has improved 100% since starting OT and only seems to surface when he gets very out-of-sync.)

A- Impulse control is in tact, and I only have to make minor adjustments like:  replace batteries, rearrange bookshelves, put away 20 dvd's, 409 the spaghetti stains out of the carpet, sweep up his oatmeal construction site, and rewash the dishes that he "washed" with lavender oil.
C- Umm...where to begin?  Fischer's imagination and creativity with play dough trickles all over the house.  A blob of red play dough winds up inside the dvd player because he thought it might make the skipping cease.  Little balls of blue play dough speckled throughout the living room floor, which is necessary if the jolly roger is going to set sail.  (I won't find what he did with the yellow play dough until next week.)  75 (not kidding) books piled on my bed because it is his library.  Red marker to remove off the freshly painted white walls (what was I thinking?).  All knobs removed from his sister's dresser (Kevin can deal with that shit.)  Remove broken crayons and hi-ho-cherries from his shotgun...both are actually quite creative substitutes for bullets.  And, I only have to buy a new box of crayons twice a week. 

A- Fischer spills his milk down the crevice of the couch and tells me that it was an accident. (Seriously, it is THE cutest thing when he tells me something is an accident!)
C- I am summoned to the living room to look at his new-and-improved pirate ship, (his $80 pirate ship) and it's slashed sails and flags (with scissors); Fish asks if it was an accident.

A- Fish only drinks half my coffee.  Coffee is like toilet paper, it's not meant to be shared.  Since I can't self-medicate every day, I rely on coffee way too much to share even a drop.
C- He snakes my coffee in the am, stashes it away, and pulls it out an hour before bedtime and downs the entire thing.  He's like his mamma when it comes to coffee; if it means going without, he'll drink his coffee cold.

Awesome- There isn't a toddler out there who is as dynamic, unique, and funny as mine.  He is a completely different kid today than he was a year ago and has made progress beyond belief.  He tells Kevin and I at least 12 times a day that he loves us.  He tells me that I am beautiful.  His imagination and pretend play is so deep and complex that I'm too simple-minded for him at times.  At times, he can play independently for over an hour.   He has worked so hard to reprogram his brain and has developed so many coping mechanisms that you don't notice that he's not a normal, smart tot.

Catastrophic- Even on bad days, he still tells Kevin and I that he loves us and wants to be held and loved on.  Tough days serve to remind me how much "noise" he has to deal with to present like other kids.  On these days, I think that as difficult as it can be at times to parent a toddler with SPD (or a toddler in general), imagine how difficult it must be to be that toddler who isn't in control. 

Mom blogs are huge right now.  In fact, some of my favorite mommy blogs are frequented by thousands of visitors daily with 100+ comments on each post.  Perhaps this just pisses me off because I have yet to receive my first comment.  And I'm no where near thousands of visitors a day, but I think that a surplus of 550 hits in the first month isn't too shabby.  I follow blogs of SAHMs as well as working moms.  And I've come to the conclusion that over half of the moms that claim to be SAHMs are full of shit.  They are knee deep in bs and not the knee deep shit that I'm experiencing with a noro-infested tot on my hands right now. 

I'm not a SAHM by design.  I lost my job almost exactly 1 year ago and apparently a Master's degree with 10+ years of experience isn't enough in this economy.  So, I've started looking into the 'making-money-online' notion that you hear tweple chirping about all the time.  I'm an above average writer, but more importantly (I've realized), I'm a really smart dumbass.  AND, I'm confident enough to put my dirty laundry out to dry, wrinkle, soil, and mold, which is really what people want.  I recently told a friend that a really good writer must be self-aware/confident and vulnerable at the same time.  So, I've got the tools in my rusty toolbox complete with ancient gold fish crackers, used tissues, and moldy sippy cups. 

I finally got this damn website up and running, which took FORever...8 months to be precise.  Keeping up with the trends means following a lot of mom/dad blogs, working mom blogs, and other female blogs.  Posting just 1 blog per day, promoting it on fb and twitter, and reading my favorite bloggers daily would take at least 8 hours, easy.  Here I must point out that the antecedent to my writing is Fischer.  I have offspring.  I am a mom, and by design or not, I'm a SAHM.  And Fish is a toddler with SPD.  He runs my ass ragged all day long.  So, I can't spend 8 hours writing and reading.  I also have to squeeze in applying for "real jobs" every day, which is a full-time job in-and-of itself.  Then you throw in ridiculous necessities like laundry, dishes, cleaning (or mere tidying up in my world), cooking, paying bills, getting groceries, and errands. 

I used to clean-up quite well and dress in chic clothing with stellar shoes.  I suppose I could have just ended that statement with clean-up and dress and it would have been adequate.  My living space was immaculate.  I've mopped my current floor 3 times over the past 12 months, and right now, I'm looking down at some sort of sticky, gooey, gunk that slightly resembles something that should only be seen while swirling down the toilet.  I pay bills late, and I never clean my car.  I play tractors, trucks, Captain Hook, tag, hide-and-seek, bike ride, and do activities each and every day, but i know that it isn't enough.  This stuff takes TIME.  I have several friends who are also SAHMs.  They have similar complaints about lack of time, mental stability, and a trashy living space- qualities of a true SAHM- and most of them are not also trying to write and find a job.  So, the conclusion that I've arrived at is this: a shit-ton (which is a lot) of the moms who claim to be SAHMs and write...total bollocks. 

I read blogs from SAHMs who complain about similar things, yet they have time to post 3 or 4 posts per day, plus freelance, and contribute to other blogs.  I say bullshit.  I've only got 1 living, breathing little person to raise and it's difficult for me to write 1 blog per day.  I read blogs of parents with 4+ offspring, many of which include major special-needs children.  What the hell?  Have they discovered some coffee with supernatural powers?  Do they smuggle ativan and xanax on the side?  Can they actually function with a bottle of wine running through their system everyday?  Do they only require 4 hours of shut-eye for full-functioning capacity?  Or, do they have an offspring remote equipped with stop, pause, and play features?  Pretty sure the answer is not any of the fore mentioned.  They are just full of shit. SAHMs who blog, freelance, guest contribute and write books must either parent make-believe offspring or they covet the secret N-word (nanny).  This conclusion makes me feel liberated.  I can talk myself into and out-of almost anything, which is really quite the attribute when you fail on a daily basis.  Self-validation is so underrated.   

I'm that mom.  You know...the mom you say you'll never become.  You find yourself behind a woman and her kid at the grocery checkout.  The kid is obnoxious.  He throws the entire box of Trident.  Mom reaches down to pick up the gum packets blanketing the tile just in time to meet a direct smack in the face.  You silently curse yourself because dude who chose the longest lane is checking out..  Now the little monster is trying to crawl out of the cart.  Plummet go the eggs and then he drops the "F-bomb."  You think that this mom needs some serious lessons on disciplinary techniques and say to yourself, "when I have kids, they will never behave like that."  When I was in my 20's, before I had Fischer, I had those thoughts. 

Even my friends who parent a "normal" toddler struggle at the grocery store.  I don't feel so bad when I hear about their toddlers' meltdowns or mishaps while shopping.   After we leave the store, Fischer becomes deregulated, seeks strong physical contact (like head-butting), and purposefully engages in inappropriate behavior.  SO not worth it.

Toddlers are constantly soaking in their surroundings; they are sensory seekers by nature.  Think about all the temptations the grocery store elicits;  the different colors, objects, textures, and sweet stuff.  Grocery shopping is time consuming and it's too much to expect a toddler to be patient.  Hell, I have a hard time being patient.

If I have no choice but to take Fischer, I engage him in some sensory play just before I leave.  (I prefer to self-medicate, but I need to be coherent when selecting fruit snacks.).  I digress; we play outside in the snow or sandbox to help curb the need to grab.   Since he's a big oral motor kid, I give him a sucker or make sure I bring along his chewelry to comfort him.  Saving Fischer the anxiety far outweighs getting whatever it is that I need.  So we're out of toilet paper, no big deal.  He hates the vaulted ceilings, the lighting, and the crowds at the grocery store.  I'm sure there are other sensory triggers that I have yet to pinpoint.  I can't stand half the people at the grocery store, so I prefer not to subject Fish.

Dear Nutella,

I've been putting off this conversation for quite some time because I do not want to cause a rift between us.  Let me start out by saying that Fischer just adores you.  You two get along so well; I am very appreciative of not only the comfort you are able to provide, but also your amazing ability to subside the sweet tooth with just one tablespoon.  And between you and me, I much prefer you over his friend Red 40. 

Fischer accepts your creamy chocolatey texture without reservation by the receptors on the tongue.  However, I do not appreciate the mess you leave behind.  Do you think my house cleans itself?  And excuse me for being so blunt, but were you born in a barn?  You need to take a lesson in appropriate manners and start cleaning up after yourself. 

Although my cream colored couch has had beef with red wine and spaghetti, it doesn't make it okay.  If I wanted a mocha colored couch, I would have bought a mocha colored couch.  And even if I was interested in redecorating, my couch does not require a fresh coat of paint each time you grace us with your presence.

Hopefully, now that we've gotten a few things straightened out, you and Fischer can continue your sacred friendship.  We can only handle you in small doses, which really is for the best because you wouldn't want to wear out your welcome. 

I knew that something was "off" at 18 months.  Fischer used to remove his dirty diaper, soil himself in his feces, smell it, taste it, and paint it on his crib and the wall.  Kevin gagged and vomited (he works with animals, so really, what's the big deal?)  I called Pinot and she came to the rescue.  These incidents happened more than I care to discuss.  This among other issues warranted a trip to Fischer's primary care doctor where we were told, "he's just a boy."  Really? 

Age two rolled around and Fischer was in overdrive, nonstop.  And I mean nonstop.  We continued to have "incidents".  While I cleaned up one mess, he went to work on the next debacle, which usually involved breaking something cool.  His body craved sensations.  He sought out sharp and dangerous objects.  He was fast and destructive.  He put everything in his mouth; toilet paper, potting soil, deer poop, sticks, yellow snow.   When he was two and a half, he drank rubbing alcohol.  This time the doc said, "it's the terrible twos."  Things continued to escalate and traditional means of punishment did nothing for Fischer.  When Fischer turned 3, I still had to watch him like a hawk.  I had to carry him everywhere because he would run away as soon as his feet hit the ground.  He flailed and fought getting in and out of his car seat.  'No' meant absolutely nothing to Fischer.  We couldn't go visit anyone unless their home was completely child proof, and even those homes were not really "Fischer-proof". 

Breaking point...age 3.  It was the middle of winter and the ground was completely snow covered.  Fischer slipped outside without my knowledge and I couldn't find him.  I've never be so scared.  I found him in my car, barefoot, keys in hand, trying to start the car.  I brought him inside and ran warm water on his feet.  He didn't even notice that his feet were cold until we'd been in the house for five minutes, and he had frostbite.   Doc referred him to a behavioral specialist.  His under-reponse was more than strange behavior; he had a delayed reaction to pain.  I took him to an OT instead.  We discovered that he had sensory processing disorder and finally, a lot of things made sense.  No need to enter the lousy parent contest...at least, not yet..  It doesn't make it any easier, but it feels a hell of a lot better to know that I don't totally suck.