You’ve seen the ads for Body Works. The company that skins dead people and poses them in sculpture-like positions for the world to see (at a nominal fee). Well, Ellie has created a song to accompany the show. And to make it a little less dark.

(Sung roughly to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star)

This is your stomach
These are your lungs
This is your shoulders
These are your arms
Your cheeks don’t have any bones
Your eyes have fulled up of liquid
And your teeth are just only bones
Intestines are for dudes
Kidneys make peeps
Here is a plant and
I see its roots
Look at my kitty princess
I like her kitty meatballs

On Wednesday of last week, I threw my back out. It’s a recurring theme in my life made more dramatic by my aging body. Simultaneously, I got a sinus/double ear infection. The interesting part is that the combination of these ailments made me a walking fire bomb.

With shoulders pointing north/south and hips pointing in more of a NNW/SSW direction, and while taking baby steps, I had to constantly hold onto the wall in the event a sneeze or cough emerged. Bracing myself was key to not herniating all discs in my spine. Or peeing my pants. I’m here to tell you, I wasn’t always successful.

As a relatively new member to the Perimenopause Society, I couldn’t tell if my fever actually broke, or if was just having a three day long hot flash. Yeah, probably hot flash. While being sick is not fun, I did catch up on a bit of reading. A very little bit. For when I put my reading glasses on and reached for my book, the age spots on my sweaty forearm magnified and looked as though they might sprout mustaches and light up cigars. Something tells me, I just might give up reading.

We’re putting our summer holiday to the Mediterranean on hold temporarily. We’re thinking it might be more fun to just stick around home and have Ellie’s adenoids removed.

During the blood drawing yesterday, there was the screaming and terror that I expected. And, although I felt horrible that Ellie had to have this procedure at all, my mind was in the “how long is this going to occupy her thoughts beyond this three minutes” mode, for the Aspergian mind of a three-year-old is adept at staying on target with a topic until, well, the end of time.

This topic could stick around for three months, like our previous perseverating visitor, the stinging bugs. Or maybe two weeks like the pain she must have endured from the umbilical cord clip seen in her baby picture. Maybe it will be a visitor that arrives at the same time daily, like our current topic, “When I get my driver’s license, will I better understand the difference between the yellow lines, white, lines, how lanes work and how to use a clutch than I do now?”.

Wind down time from stressful events involves sitting in her bean bag chair, sipping juice from a sipper, snuggling with meeper (most prized and beloved blanket), and watching Nemo or Horton Hears a Who. So, of course after our trauma, we hunkered down. Ellie randomly paused the movie, at one point to the very picture below, and when she returned laughing, said, “HEY MOMMA! That was me a little while ago, but the shot didn’t go in my mouth.” And, that is indeed, exactly what she looked like.

Sensitivity about one’s physique in this household is a trait that needs to be checked at the door with your coat. If you forget to do so, there’s a distinct possibility you’ll leave our home with nothing but a paper sack of goo and dust that was, at one point, your self-esteem.

To date, the following imperfections have been duly noted:

• My feet are gross
• I have beefy hock meat
• My blemishes are large enough to drive a car
• Ben’s arm mole actually produces wailing and tears
• My biscuits bounce a lot when pushed by small hands

I can now add scary pee to my list.

Ellie: [crying real tears] MoooooOOooommmmy! It scares me when you go potty.

Me: What are you talking about?

Ellie: It just scares [sniffle, sniffle, inhale, sob] me when you go pee pee first.

Me: Listen sister, the bathroom is free and awaiting your morning sunshine. It’s all yours.

Ellie: [with increased sobbing] But Mama! You’re not listening to me about your pee!

Me: You’re right, honey. I’m not going to listen about my pee mostly because it’s pretty silly. And, if you choose to continue this conversation, I’m going to put my feet on your face while my zit drives you to school.

Barbie is not someone Ellie has had the desire to get to know, start up a conversation with, or dress for success. Until yesterday. She decided to drag along Scantily Clad Spring Break Barbie to our neurologist’s appointment. I followed her all the way holding my jaw that continued to slip and fall onto the floor.

When we arrived in the waiting room, we had the joint to ourselves. Ellie decided to strip Barbie of the little dignity she had left. Leaving her completely nekkid. During the disrobing portion of our program, two families with a total of four prepubescent boys arrived. Usually in a crowd (of one other person), Ellie does her best to be invisible. Not today. Let the show begin.

Ellie: [pointing to the boobies, Barbies, not mine] Mom, what’s this called.

Me: [not caring that anyone judges me for inaccurate descriptions] That’s her chest.

Ellie: These bumps are called her chest?

Me: Yeppers.

Ellie: [pointing specifically at the tips of the "bumps"] Is this where her nipples are?

Me: Uh huh.

Ellie: [positioned Barbie with her arms and right leg straight in the air] Barbie likes to hop around like this. We can see her biscuits.

Long after our appointment, Barbie remains to be a naturalist. She did get a bath and much-needed shampoo last night. After a day like that, I can understand just wanting to wash it all away. And, I am just completely thrilled that our major launch into pretend play has continued for more than five minutes. So are four prepubescent boys.

Because everyday at our family’s sprawling 1500 square-foot estate is essentially the same day played over and over again, with the same script and same routine, I occasionally like to alter one small thing to show Autism who’s really in charge. Today, I put on lipstick. Take that. My house will be lit up blue on April 1 and 2, but my lips will be Revlon Mocha 178.

Why did I go to such great lengths? I mean it did require finding some circa 2007 tube from the back of the bathroom closet. It was a bold risk taken in between the putting-on-pants portion of our picture schedule and delaying the perseverating morning discussion involving the future of Ellie’s lost baby teeth and emergence of her grown-up teeth. The details of that discussion to be shared on a future broadcast.

I chose the lipstick because I had no time to shave my legs. Don’t look so confused. It makes perfect sense. Today was the *annual* check-up and I’ve always felt the least I can do is minimize cuts to my physician. Cuts I can only imagine might be akin to those a prisoner would receive in his attempt to escape over the maximum security razor fence. I felt the lipstick detracted, if even for a moment, that I have completely given up on my appearance. I was also hoping it would detract from the mismatched trouser socks (black and brown) I ended up wearing in an attempt to contain my leg barbs from the ankle to knee regions.

It is for these reasons, I have always chosen a female physician. At one time or another, we girls have all been there. Well, nobody wrote ME a social story today! Where was MY picture schedule at 9:15 am?! Surprise, Kara! Your regular physician will be supervising our new internist during your exam. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Nathan Fillion.

The only effective way to get our jr. entomologist to brush her teeth is to declare that there are scorpions living in between them and they must be eradicated. She loves it and while the routine must always be the same, it doesn’t hurt to throw in an occasional wow factor. Tonight, I heard Ben tell her that he found one in there would not only sting her but make her face fall off if extreme brushing didn’t occur. I don’t know how to top that one unless I call Orkin in for a personal consult.

One of the staff members taking care of the kids during our sessions pulled me aside to tell me about a conversation between the staff member and Ellie.

Ellie: I need you to remove the poop from my pants.

Stephanie: You know Ellie, if you use the big girl potty, you won’t have to wear diapers anymore.

Ellie: Yes. I know that. Now can you remove my poop?

This is a topic that is particularly annoying. However, so is the sweat bead that continues to make its way down my backside into my crack or pools beneath my sagging chachas in the band of elastic I lovingly refer to as a bra. I’m over it. Enough said.

The other thing I can’t wait to bid adieu to, is summer’s beauty marks. It looks like someone took a club to my child’s shins. There are bruises and scrapes whose scabby edges mockingly peek out from behind the angelic face of Kai-Lan bandaids. The mosquito welts look as if they will grow mustaches, smoke cigars and talk like Marge Simpson’s sisters. Ellie has two on her right leg larger than half dollars. I’m pretty sure if there were two more nearby, we’d mistake that appendage for the udder of a Holstine. I’m again, OVER IT. Enough said. Really. Maybe.