Little Man had his second therapy session with the OT today. He was in a nice, quiet, calm mood today, so the OT did a lot of fine motor planning activities with him.

I asked Hubby to come along to the session today so that I could ask the OT a few questions about LM’s behaviours and his therapy, while Little Man and Hubby played in another room. We’ve (the OT and I) come to the conclusion that, for now, Little Man definitely (maybe?) doesn’t have Asperger’s. She did say that he exibits some behaviours that smell of AS, but that there could be other reasons for them. She also said that if she really believed at any point that Little Man did  have AS, she’d be frank about it and ask us to get a second opinion and an official diagnosis.

We discussed hubby’s OCD a little more. And Little Man’s increasing anxiety around other children and around routines. He is becoming more rigid in his expectations of the world, especially us, his parents. The OT reiterated that she really would like us to get our family doc to refer LM to the anxiety clinic at the children’s hospital. While it is rare for children this young to show signs of OCD, with a parent such as Hubby having such severe OCD, it is definitely something we need to keep an eye on.

Coincidentally, I have an appointment with our doc tomorrow morning to ask for the referral. This won’t be a problem, as the doc had asked me before if we wanted the referral to be sent. At that point, we were already seeing a different child psychiatrist, so I didn’t think we needed it. Then we found out the the child psych we were seeing was a jackass who couldn’t be on time or keep an appointment book that wasn’t double-booked. Now we’ve decided that we might as well get on the waiting list for the clinic at the children’s hospital. Oh yeah…did I mention that the waiting list is 6 months to a year long? Fuck.

Fuck.

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On another note, I wanted to clarify something about my last post. I want to make sure that I’m clear about the fact that when I talk about the friends “dropping like flies,” I mean that they are dropping in my mind. They drop off the radar because I either don’t initiate any contact or don’t respond to their calls or emails. I am too worried all the time about how my kid will behave and react to all of the potential stressors. I might be embarrassed about a previous playdate. I might just be too tired to deal with it. So I avoid them. Not a good way to deal with it, but it’s my  way.

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On a happy note, Little Man has been spelling and reading up a storm (or, as much of a storm as a 4-year-old can read) lately. We were in Walmart (Don’t even bloody well ask me about our Walmart. Fuckers. Ok, you can ask, but read this part first.), finishing up our grocery shopping (never again, WalFart Feckers), and having a  boring as hell  stimulating convo about Star Wars and Yoda and Lego dot com.

***Tangent*** Speaking of convo’s, Little Man can TALK, girlfriends!! Lately, his one-sided conversations are getting longer and longer and more and more repetitive. I try hard to always appear interested and to reply in the (SHORT!) dead spaces of air that demand a reply of some sort. You know, you’d be surprised how well you can carry on a conversation with just uttering the odd “Really?” or “That’s cool, buddy” or “I agree, Little Man.”  Of course, you do run the risk of a “Mommy??!! Mommy??!!! You’re not really listening to me, are you? Now I’ll have to start over again.”  If this happens, just start over again with, “Really?”

Anyway, the little dooood can talk the shit out of a topic. Lately it’s Star Wars and Lego Star Wars. I might be the only person alive who was born in the 70’s who HASN’T seen the Star Wars movies, but please excuse my worldly ignorance. I don’t know who’s good or who’s bad or who’s good now but used to be bad and vice versa. I won’t even pretend to care. Ok, yes I will. For my kid, I pretend to care. See above.  ***End tangent.

So somewhere in the conversation, Little Man has decided that instead of just going to Lego dot com or Star Wars dot com, he should see if there is such a thing as Yoda dot com. He reminds me that he can spell Lego and that he can spell Star Wars and says he’s going to figure out how to spell Yoda.

“Mommy, I forget which letter makes the yuh sound.”

“It’s Y, dood.”

“Ok, so it’s Y, O, that one is easy, duh, D, hahaha, that one’s easy too, aaahhh, A. So I’ll type in Y O D A dot com.”

“That’s right, buddy. You’re amazing me with your smartness.”

“Duh, Mommy. Smartness isn’t a real word.”

“Oh, ok. Sorry.”

Is it bad that my kid says “duh” to me a lot? I think it might be bad. Yeah, it probably is…

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Dear WalFart Fuckers of My Town, Canada,

I hate your asses. All of your asses. And you have a LOT of asses.

I was in your store today, buying groceries and a couple of bribes for my kid. Pretty simple, right? Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you? Simple-minded Butt Wipes. (Please know that I am entirely aware that there are probably a lot of smart, kind, helpful people working for the WalFart Enterprise. I am also entirely aware that none of them are in My Town’s WalFart store.) Yes, YOU! My problem lies in the fact that when I made my way to the check-out point, I was greeted with the samedamnthing as every other time I’ve tried to check out of your store: LINE UPS. LONG BLOODY LINE UPS. This is so NOT cool, WalFart of My Town, Canada. Not fucking cool.

If the store was particularly busy on occasion (say a Saturday afternoon at 1), I could forgive you. If it happened once or twice, here or there, I could also forgive you. But I can NOT forgive you for this when it happens every time that I enter your store. I might add here that I’m usually in your store twice a week. On weekdays. In the morning. IN. EXCUSE. ABLE.

I’ve called your managers on this. I’ve sent letters. I’ve sent emails. You must think I’m just fucking with you, because nothing ever changes. Samedamnthing, every time. So that’s it. I’m done with you. The hate affair is over. I will now purposefully pay more for my groceries and other necessities because it will be better for my mental health. No more attacks of suddenly high blood pressure. No more stress headaches because I can’t think of a way to talk to your manager without using the word “Fuck” six thousand times. I’m done with you.

Oh, and just in case you’re thinking that it’s good to be rid of me and my insults? Be. Aware. I’m plotting WalFart Butt Holes. Plotting. I’m evil. I’m evil and I’m plotting…. Did I mention I’m evil?

Kia, My Town, Canada

*Note: No WalFart Butt Wipes employees were harmed in the making of this hate mail. No, I’m not actually plotting an attack. It’s a joke. Ha. Ha.