Aside from a handful of remote and random moments when the stars were aligned in Aquarius, Ellie has never played in her room. Such an idea is considered preposterous. Playing is not something you do alone. Playing is not something you do with another child. Playing is telling your Mommy how you want her to pretend, what voice to use, and where to sit.

As I type this, she is in her room. By herself. Creating her own calendar with rubber lizards and frogs. I hear:

“Each squishy bug my rubbery animals I put ‘em on my cards which kind of tall short tall short. Each day is a new one. We put one on today and then another one on tomorrow and the next tomorrow. And each day gets a new year for the month. That’s how years work. I just put every single thing on my cards so whenever I did it I can do it every year. Every day, short tall short tall.” Given that I just started remembering to date forms and checks with 2011, the new time measurement proposal isn’t something I feel quite confident implementing just yet.

With her calendar complete, she runs into my office. I comment on how great it is to see her playing in her room. “Oh, that WASN’T playing!” What was I thinking? I probably jinxed it. Now, this probably won’t happen again for another year day of the month tomorrow or the next tomorrow. Sigh.

At this very moment I’m practicing my ABA skills. I’m telling myself that when Ellie gets through her current meltdown, which happens to be taking place in the tub (going on thirty minutes), Mama may pour herself a cocktail.

Thank you Asperger’s for reminding me you’re here. I mean, God forbid we should go thirty minutes without being fully aware of your presence. So, I certainly appreciate you landing at our front door with a “voice as soft as thunder” this afternoon. You somehow reminded Ellie that she is unable to enter a room unless she is first. A behavior we conquered awhile ago. She stood on our front stoop for twenty minutes screaming so hard that her eyeballs popped out of her head and were looking up at her from the door mat. She’s still winding down and it will take another hour. Thank you.

Don’t you have anything new up your sleeve? You have to revisit old behaviors? You suck ass. I can’t even tell you how much I hate you. That you make my girl so upset and riddled with anxiety. You take simple moments and turn them to shit. Let’s not even mention the more momentous occasions that involve celebrations, new places, and friends. You are determined to suck the joy out of life and you know what? A lot of times you do. I’d like to meet you in a dark alley and kick your ASS.

As I opened the door to Ellie’s classroom, I witnessed her stretching her arm out as far as she could, wiggling her fingers, and saying goodbye to a girl from her class. With a loud voice. Using the girl’s name. A voice that wasn’t heard at first, but then she repeated it. This little girl then turned to Ellie, said goodbye, and approached Ellie for a hug. And do you know what frickin’ happened?!!? The earth stood still along with my heart. Ellie wrapped her arms around the girl. Aside from her father and me, I have never witnessed Ellie hug another person. It was the sweetest, most beautiful thing. EVER. In the entire universe of existence.

As I stood there trying to take in what just happened, Ellie tied her jacket around her waist (to be like just like the teacher she adores) and we started out the door. Apparently, wearing your jacket around your waist gives you a wiggle like you own the place. She sauntered down the hall unaware and not caring if I was beside her. Head up. Shoulders back. A little girl at the end of the hall watched Ellie approach. As we neared, the girl put her hand up in a motionless wave. I’m assuming she was in awe of the confidence exuded before her. Then, as if she was greeting a coworker at the office where she worked for twenty years, Ellie looked at the girl, put her hand up, and rounded the corner. Off to get her coffee before heading to her cubicle.

My brain is constipated. Sometimes I don’t notice it happening until it’s really backed-up. Now I’m sluggish. There is nothing of substance in my head at this moment. I wouldn’t know a current event if was poured in a shot glass and set on fire. And reading? The only reading I’ve done involves National Enquirer headlines at the check-out, and even then, I can’t be bothered to actually pick one up.

After dropping Ellie off at school this morning, I attempted to help a fellow Mom who was holding a baby and corralling two little ones at the school entrance. As I hurried past her to open the door, I said, “Here door is the open. I me do that.”

I drove through Starbucks and completely by-passed ordering. Just went to the window and didn’t understand why they didn’t have my coffee ready.

My dear friend called the other day, slightly panicked, and asked if we were ok. I had just walked in the door from taking Ellie to get an adenoid x-ray. Because that was the only thought in my head, I proceeded to tell her that we are trying another round of antibiotics. She was VERY confused since she was actually referring to the devastating tornado that whipped through our area damaging 2200 homes. Oh right, that. Yeah, we’re fine.

We’ve been invited to a Kentucky Derby party next weekend, with people I’ve never met. I’m really looking forward to it but if things don’t improve upstairs, this is what the conversation will be like after we leave:

* Did you get a chance to meet Kara?
* I did, briefly. When did she suffer that stroke?
* It was a stroke? I heard she ran head first into a tree.
* Well, her husband is a saint. The way he so gently wipes the drool from her chin is a real testament to how much he loves her.
* Oh, and he didn’t even bat an eye when she was standing in the corner with her hand in the dip bowl. He just guided her away and let her lick her fingers.
* She couldn’t find the bathroom at one point and I was afraid she was going to pee in the sink.

Help.

In addition to Ellie starting a sentence first thing in the morning and ending it when her head hits the pillow some twelve hours later, she is occupied by two new interests.

1) Taking her own temperature (orally, for anyone asking). Once every fifteen minutes. Although I don’t want to encourage hypochondriac tendencies, each of those fifteen second increments of silence are glorious.

2) Being on the right. Sitting on the right. Standing on the right. Holding my right hand. Chewing on the right. Jumping on her right foot. “Am I on the right? See, I’m on the right. This is the left. Here’s the right. That’s the left. Is that the left, Mama? Over here is the right. I want the right. I’m on the right. Right?” Definitely an exercise to send me out of my right mind. Frankly, it’s a short trip.

I received this spam comment today. “Allblondepubichair” has given me something to think about.

“The next time I read a blog, I hope that it doesnt disappoint me as much as this one. I mean, I know it was my choice to read, but I actually thought youd have something interesting to say. All I hear is a bunch of whining about something that you could fix if you werent too busy looking for attention.”

Over the Easter weekend, my father-in-law told me about a man who, for lent, ingested nothing but water and beer. He gained weight ahead of time to counter the affects, cleared this with his employer, and there ya go. Not to one up him or anything, but my 3-year-old just completed SIX weeks (eat that!) of ingesting nothing but amoxicillin and juice. AND, she gets to go to the doctor again today, for what I’m guessing will be another three weeks of the pink stuff. By the way, she DIDN’T clear this with her employer. So um, beer man, I’m not impressed.

Took my family to the contemporary art museum today. The building is beautiful. Something right out of Architectural Digest. I wanted to move in. Not only because it was modern and had windows everywhere, but it didn’t have laundry land mines around every turn. Or random glasses of half-filled mystery liquid. Or tables to dust. Or rugs to vacuum. Again, I digress.

That contemporary, modern, cold lust lasted only until I had to ninja one of the staff members right in her throat. As the three of us turned a corner and entered a long gallery, I was approached by a pretentious, kool-aid red hair-wearing, anti-child, art whore who told me that I needed to hold Ellie’s hand through the gallery. Exsqueezeme?

I had to have her repeat this phrase that I couldn’t believe she uttered. After she repeated herself and I was clear that she indeed told me how I needed to parent my daughter, I respectfully assured her that Ellie wouldn’t touch anything. I was ready to drop it. She pressed on and informed me that “we REQUEST you hold your child’s hand here.” In turn, I told her that probably wasn’t going to happen. “Will she cry if you do?” I let her know that Ellie wouldn’t cry but that we were done with this conversation.

On our way out, she thanked us all for coming. As always, with the grace and maturity of royalty, I stared her down with a look of death before walking out the door.

This irritated me on three levels. And by all means, let me tell you what those were (are because I’m still honked):

A) As a college art major (that she should obviously know), I wouldn’t dream of knocking over the life-sized naked woman statue bent down taking a leak on a stair case. I don’t like it, but I wouldn’t want someone knocking over my naked peeing statue.

B) I understand one’s nervousness at seeing a 3-year-old enter a china shop, but when the child’s mother tells you directly, that her kid won’t touch anything, you need to back the f off. You voiced your concern. Now eat your shut it stew.

C) If you are going to disrespect one patron, disrespect all of them equally. A family with three teenagers entered the gallery shortly after us. The teenagers were bounding up and down the stairs four at a time, jumping, and talking loudly. One even knocked over a sign on an easel. Now, did this bother me? No. But according to the OSHA standards of contemporary art, the personnel should have either confronted them as they did me or imploded.

I got nothin’. It’s been a long week so the most I can utter with my fingers is blaaaaaahhhhhhh. Somethin’ tells me I’ll have material following this weekend. After much explaining of the Easter Bunny’s annual activities, Ellie has come up with her own plan as to how it’s all gonna go down.