Spring Break Travels - Special Needs Style!

 
Going on any vacation with kids is always an undertaking, but going on vacation with children with special needs can add a whole new level of excitement! I mean like getting-chased-by-a-rabid-bear excitement. And who doesn't need a little more excitement in their lives? (Or heart failure... ?)

Just over a year ago we took our saved-up money and purchased a really old previously enjoyed pop-up camper. On our budget, trips to Disney, Vale or *sigh* Europe are out of the question, so we decided that if we were ever to escape from the doldrums of  "Staycation" mode, camping trips were the way to go! It's pure awesomeness (if you like bugs and dirt... which I do).

This year Spring Break fell over both Easter and my Life Anniversary Day. (I'm way too cool to have "birthdays"... or admit that Father Time has been chasing me about like a lecherous old coot on a drinking binge) Hubby wanted to go to some nice hilly place with trees, but I wanted to go to the beach. Hubby doesn't like sand (a few tours in Kuwait will do that to a guy) so I gave him the puppy-dog eyes and he said "OK." I'm evil that way. I mean, what's a little PTSD between spouses, right?

So, we loaded up the Suburban with enough clothes and food to sustain a small African nation for a month and headed off to the PirateLand Campground in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

When arriving at a new campground, the second order of business is meeting your temporary neighbors. (The first order of business is running as fast as you possibly can with your legs crossed to the bathroom... but I think we all know that.)  First we met the people to our right. That's their grandson, 10-year-old Robert on the left.

Then we met the family directly behind us. That's their 10-year-old son Colton on the right. The Skink is in the middle. Yes... three beautiful kids with Down syndrome / Trisomy 21! Prior to this trip, none of us knew each other. What are the chances of something this cool happening on vacation? And with luck like this, why did I not win that huge lottery jackpot a couple weeks ago?

We played, colored Easter eggs and hung out with our new friends until it was time for Robert's grandparents to go play Bingo and Colton's family to go out for Krispy-Kreme doughnuts which I absolutely adore but will never have the pleasure of tasting again upon learning that gluten and I don't get along... at... all!

 

Leaving Easter egg colors for the fairies.

On Easter Sunday The Skink got to see the Atlantic Ocean for the first time... and feel just how cold it is in early April...

But everybody (with the exception of my poor hubby) was so excited, the cool temperatures didn't stop their fun.

While my children lounged about in their bathing suits, Murphy's Law dictated that I receive Mother Nature's "Gift" which I would have gladly given back. (Wouldn't have minded giving Mother Nature a big 'ol slap too, but didn't have the chance.) Don't I look right at home, fully-clothed on the beach? (Please note the fishing pole in the background which adds the comedic insinuation that I am getting very good reception out there! Beam me up, Scotty!)

After a couple of hours, Broadway announced that he was starving so I offered to make him a sandwich.

I don't think this was what he had in mind.

With temperatures in the '50's and low '60's over the next few days, visits to the beach were kept brief and were only done in jeans and warm jackets. But never fear! We did "other stuff" too...

...like playing with play-dough...

...Iraq having a meltdown due to "transition issues" associated with disrupting her regularly scheduled life... (not pictured)

...observing the local wildlife...

Squirrel Butt!

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...riding bikes...

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...coloring more Easter eggs...

With Sparkles!

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...coloring hair...

Don't you think the red brings her Devil  out nicely?

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...laughing at Mommy running on her goofy spring-shoes (hey - Tiggers bounce! What can I say?)...

...Iraq having another meltdown... 

...singing into hairbrush-microphones...

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...cuddling cows...

...Iraq having another meltdown...

...and making Magic!

I might add, this was The Skink's first time casting spells, and girlfriend had a BLAST!

Have I mentioned that Iraq had a few meltdowns? Any time her schedule is changed AT ALL, we can expect some (read: "a lot") of emotional issues. Many people in the autism spectrum go totally Chernobyl   dislike change... and Iraq is one of them. No matter how much fun we are having, she finds ways of fitting in a few mega-crying-freak-out binges along the way. My favorite this vacation was when we were in one of those touristy shops looking for some souvenirs. One moment Iraq was following me, and then next, she had disappeared into thin air. 

While most parents might have gone into panic someone-kidnapped-my-child mode, the Hubby and I calmly started searching through clothing racks. After about 8 minutes, Iraq was safely located cowering under a flock of parrot-print bathing suits. It took me a few minutes to extract her and convey my now-sobbing child out of the store, followed by the harsh stares of other shoppers (I love those looks. Don't you?).

If you've ever studied psychology (which I did, right up until I met the psychology professor from h311) you may have learned that the human brain will always try to find reason for emotion... even when there is none. In one study, which I found particularly interesting, electrical impulses were sent through the study participants' brains' to the parts of the brain associated with different emotions. When the participants experienced the triggered emotions, they were asked "why" they felt what they felt. Instead of answering "I don't know," each and every participant came up with an answer related to their personal life as to why they felt sad, angry, euphoric, etc.

I thought that was really interesting... and I also thought it would be pretty fun to have such an emotion-altering-electrode-contraption thing at my disposal... but I digress...

That study came to mind when I asked Iraq why she was having a mega-meltdown at the store and she quickly answered that it was because the new beach cover-up I had just purchased was hideous and she hated it. 

It's not that bad, is it?

Oh well... whatever - right? At any rate it finally got (almost) warm enough to venture back out to the beach on our last full day there - which was actually supposed to be our second-to-last-full-day there, but in light of the number of meltdowns we were dealing with on a daily basis, we decided that going home a day early wouldn't be a tragedy...

So this time we ALL put on bathing suits and went out to enjoy the sand, the waves and the goose-bumps one last time before traveling home.

Apparently the Teenage Handbook makes it clear that smiling for pictures is strictly prohibited for 17-year-old boys!

  In filling up her "pool" Iraq caught her first fish!

At the end of the day, Broadway took his magic carpet for a quick spin (wouldn't want him to fly it too long as he doesn't have his magic carpet flying license yet) and we all packed up and headed back to the camper.

On Saturday morning we packed up the camp site and headed home. Although Hubby and I will need a bit of R&R following such an exciting and eventful "vacation," at least the kids will be well rested! Yay.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Circle of Moms

 

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Girda the Demonic Viking Lactation Coach

In celebration of my birthday, I'm not going to write a new blog post. Instead, I'm going to share an excerpt of my book, Disaster Flambé, just for the fun of it! I hope you enjoy it!

Girda the Demonic Viking Lactation Coach

The first thing you need to understand before I dive into the post-birth quagmire with Girda, is that the Lord saw fit to bless my baby sister with MY breasts. It’s that whole sibling rivalry thing revisited, “Mom, she took my belt!” “Mom, she’s making faces at me!” Mom, she has boobies and won’t give me any!” Yes, my sister is a 36 EE, and I… I am a 32 A minus. In fact, to add insult to injury, my nipples don’t even stick out! What sort of sick sense of humor does it take to give a flat-chested woman “innies?”

Prior to knowing that I was doomed with a life-sentence of flat-chestedness, I was just as thrilled as any other 11-year-old to go out with my mother and purchase my first “Training Bra.” This contraption of straps and two tiny triangles of lacy fabric would become cell keeper to my rib cage for the next 5 years. In those 5 years I learned how to french-kiss, how to dance, and how to wiggle my training bra back in to place without being noticed. Finally at age 16, I came to the realization that my breasts had been in training for quite some time, and apparently they hadn’t learned a damned thing! The “Training Bra” was discarded along with other items of childhood fantasy like my tiara and the fake ruby slippers I had kept hidden in my closet for years. I was never to be a princess, and I was never to model for Victoria’s Secret. I quit wearing a bra altogether, and quite enjoyed this freedom through college and my early 20’s.

I find it funny that though flat as a board, I must still suffer through the embarrassment of the yearly breast exam performed by my gynecologist. Like I wouldn’t notice some lump that had attached itself to my ribs? On one occasion the doctor was inspecting me with a look of concentration on his face and stated, “I seem to have found a small lump on your left side.”
My simple reply was “Thank-goodness! Can you find my right one too?”

I was ecstatic when I finally became pregnant! First, I was going to have a baby! Second, I was suddenly an “A” cup! A real “A” cup! Like, I could actually wear a grown-up bra without the worry of finding it nestled up under my arm pits at the end of the day! I’d been waiting 25 years for this.

Of course there was also the down-side. Suddenly as I trotted down the stairs, there were these two lumps on my chest that seemed to have developed a life of their own. They were bouncing! And they were SORE! When I lay on my side at night, they were there… pinching themselves between my arm and body. It took some getting used to (though my husband adjusted pretty quickly). Unfortunately my poor little nipples seemed to be confused and upset by the changes. They hid deeper inside, only coming out in the extreme cold, but rushing back to their hiding places as soon as the goose-pimples had subsided. It got so bad that around the 7^th month of pregnancy, they even started to cry at night!

About this time, I started to read up on breast-feeding. It was made clear through the television and the pamphlets at the doctor’s office that only mothers possessed by Satan himself did not breast-feed their babies! From the looks of it, some states might even have pressed charges in if a mother was found purchasing formula for a minor! But what I read concerning breast-feeding started to frighten me…
“Hold the baby in the crook of your arm. Gently touch his lower lip with your finger until he starts to ‘root’ or look for your nipple. Bring your breast to your baby’s face and place your nipple in his mouth.”
Are we talking about a breast or a garden hose? “Bring your breast to your baby’s face…?” The only thing I was going to be bringing anywhere was my baby to the thing that looked like a halved orange stuck to my chest because I was pretty sure it wasn’t going anywhere! Hmmmm… was this going to be a problem?

So finally my baby was lying in my arms.
“The lactation coach will be here in about 5 minutes.” The day-nurse warned me. Well, looking back I say “warned.” I suppose at the time she “told” me that the nurse would be in.

And in came Girda!

The best way to visualize Girda is that large, Viking woman in the opera, but without the horns (or, at least, you couldn’t actually see them). Vit a very tick German accent she sait, “Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
“Hi, my name is Leigh and this is my son Jacob.”
“Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
“What’s your name?”
“Girrrrdahhh. Tak ovv your tup, pleez.”
As I began to wonder if the next sentence would be ‘Vee haff vays ov makink you tak ovv your tup!’ I quickly began opening my gown. Before I was even fully exposed, a large mutton-like hand had shot out and adhered itself to my tiny, sore, orange-half boobie.
“Hmmmm… dis iz nut verrrry goot. Do you haff nipplez?”
“Uh, yeah… they’re just innnn-aaaaaahhhhhh! Um, I guess you found them, huh?”
“Uummmm-hmmmm.”
“Am I going to have trouble because I’m small?”
She stood back with her arms crossed over her ample chest while she scrutinized the situation. “In uull my twenty-fife yerrs ov teaching dis, noboooty walk out ov hospital not brest feetink baby!
(Did the rest of them get rolled out in body-casts? This was not a good start!)
Girda broke my panic-stricken silence with “Let me haff your niplez again.”
Like I had a choice.
“Deez are not too goot for feedink baby.”
She held Jacob against me and appeared to be attempting to stuff my entire breast into his mouth. After torturing us both to her satisfaction for the next 30 minutes, she announced, “Teachink baby to nurzz frum you like teachink him to nurse frum wall. He can nut latch on to sometink he can nut finte. Zo now I tell ladees, in uull my twenty-fife yerrs ov teaching dis, der voss only one who did nut.”
And with that, she left.

While I was sitting there in shock, my husband came in with a bottle of formula.
“What, things didn’t go so well? I was just in the sitting room with Sgt. Neilson’s wife and she said she never even needed the coach.” he said innocently.
As soon as I found my voice, I replied “If you think it’s so damn easy, why don’t you give it a try?”

In the years since that time, I have discovered that babies do fine on formula, you won’t be arrested for not breast-feeding, and a little thing called the Miracle Bra. I have a wonderful, healthy son, a nice figure in clothes, and plenty of extra room in my bra to carry my wallet, keys and makeup. I can proudly state to anyone who asks,

“Yes! These are 100% natural… cotton.”

Click here to see more from Disaster Flambé

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