Nevada republican representative Cresent Hardy is an asshole.
I know, crazy of me to say that a republican is an asshole, but it’s true.
But he’s further along the asshole republican spectrum.
Because, while speaking at a political expo in Vegas, he made an awesome statement:
“…They will not be a drain on society…hopefully they will never have some disability…”
Apparently, his children “…work hard…raising their own families.”
That is so awesome for you, asshole.
I also hope your children never have a disability because then, according to you, they will be a drain on society. And since you’ve already stated that people who need government assistance are “freeloaders,” I can only imagine what will happen if your children need your help.
Will they also be freeloaders and drains on society? Will you decide to abandon them?
What will happen if you need government assistance?
Oh, wait, you already get it.
If we need to talk about someone that’s a drain on society, let’s talk about a politician who earns $174,000 a year as a base salary (and that was in 2014, the last year I could easily find). That low figure covers the 150-ish days a year when they are actually working. It does not cover their benefits package.
The state of Nevada, by contrast, has a median household income of $52,000.
Can we talk about who’s a drain on society now?
As I might have mentioned in the previous post, Simon wants to go to ESY (Extended School Year for those not in the know).
He really wants to go to ESY.
He really, really wants to go to ESY.
For the most part, he’s calmed down. But he checks the calendar and asks about it every day.
And he likes me to write about it.
Normally when he asks me to write things down, we wind up filling up a page with repeated sentences.
Sometimes they fall into particular patterns, like if he gets anxious about dad not being home. Then we have a rote way of handling it that includes repetition of “Dad is at work. Dad will be home at dinner time. We will wait for Dad. We won’t cry for Dad.” That goes on for as long as it has to until he calms himself down.
This time, though, he wanted me to write something down, and then he told me that “Mom said it.” What I said was that there was no school. I decided to be clever, so I put a word bubble around it, and then drew myself. Poorly.
He liked it, though, and then he said, “Mom, there’s no school.” And he pointed at the page.
I wrote it down, word-bubbled it, and drew him.
As you can see, from there, he had a lot of fun telling me what to write. I had to stop him when the page ran out of space, but by then he had calmed down and was doing okay again.
I may not be the most talented of artists, but I’m good enough to make Simon happy, and since he’s my only audience (other than you fools who are reading this), I think I’ve hit my market.
The gods of special needs kids and parents are capricious.
Yesterday, everything went as smoothly as anyone could expect for the first week of summer vacation. It got a bit rough at the end of the day, but Simon was tired and hungry, and who among us can cast the first stone for being in a bad mood in that situation?
This morning we went out shopping with a friend, and by the time it hit 11, he was getting upset, stamping his foot, whining, and doing everything else he does when he’s unhappy. Luckily, I got him to tell me that he was angry because he was hungry. Again, hangry is a legit thing for any of us. It totally would’ve broken Job, amiright?
We hit an early lunch at Whatburger. (Whataburger, if you read this, send me free coupons because Simon luuuuvs you!)
Simon showed he was hungry: he ate his food, stole fries from my friend, and drank two jugs of OJ. After that, he was calmer, said he was happy, and said he wasn’t hungry.
Things were okay after that.
We went home and chilled out. He watched TV and played with some of his birthday gifts.
Then it was time to go to HEB. For some reason, the grocery store is one of Simon’s favorite places to go. I don’t know if it’s because of the loaves and fishes. Oh wait, we don’t buy fish. Maybe it’s the cheese and bread to make grilled cheese sandwiches?
I don’t know why it is, but he loves it. He’ll wake me up in the morning by asking when we’re going to HEB. (HEB – if you’re reading this, give me some free coupons, too!)
We drove to HEB – he was happy.
We went into HEB – he was happy.
We shopped through most of the store – he was happy.
We walked into the produce area and ran into…his teacher from this past year.
The happy was gone.
Simon saw her, he touched her arm, she said hi to him.
It was all over.
He immediately began to talk about ESY (Extended School Year – like summer school for kids with disabilities) and school. His entire focus shifted to it. After fighting his obsession all weekend, he gave into it.
I tried to pay for out groceries and get us out of the store as quickly as possible, but he melted down at the register. I used all my tricks for calming him down, and none of them worked.
It was a very, very unsuccessful shopping trip.
So, I pray, dear capricious special needs gods, keep teachers and other school personnel away from us as we shop. (And don’t take it personally, but I think we’ll start driving out of town to a Kroger’s instead.)
At the thrift store, I spotted it.
One of those little statuettes from the 1970s. I remember having them in the house when I was a kid, up on the shelves with knickknacks and tchotchkes.
But this one. This one was for me:
World’s Best Mother.
I brought it up to the register to buy it, and the woman in line behind me saw it. Well, part of it.
“What does that say?” She asked.
“World’s Best Mother.” I picked it up off the counter and showed it to her.
And I bought it.
I don’t know about your house, but in our house, summer is rough. Simon *loves* school.
He loves the people. He loves the routine. He loves the activities.
Starting yesterday (Memorial Day), he began to focus on ESY (Extended School Year for y’all not in the know…it’s like summer school, but for kids with special needs who need extra help over the summer).
He spent the whole Monday talking about ESY, asking about it, telling us when it was.
Unfortunately, ESY is only four weeks long. Two weeks in June. Two weeks in July. Four days each of those weeks. Three hours each of those days.
4 x 4 x 3 = 36 hours.
Over nine weeks.
I’m going into the summer prepared and hopeful.
The World’s Best Mother award is part of those preparations.
Like most mothers – especially those of us mothers with special needs kids – there are more days when we feel like the worst mothers instead of the best mothers.
But we shouldn’t.
Even on those worst mother days, we’re still pretty good. As long as our kids are still alive, we’re still alive, and no one is going to jail, it’s a good day.
We’re the World’s Best Mothers.
Not too long ago, we decided to start getting regular babysitting, and we picked my father’s step-granddaughter.
She had seemed nice and responsible when we’d met her, but I figured I’d try to get some more info on her. So I called my father.
He talked about her and about her son. He went on and on about how awesome his step-great-grandson is. So smart! So clever! So talented! This little boy was the best little boy in the whole history of little boys!
I stopped my father.
“What do you brag about when you talk about Simon?”
Too long a pause.
“Simon’s very special.”
He didn’t think to brag about Simon’s memory.
He didn’t think to brag about Simon’s smile.
He didn’t think to brag about how everyone who meets Simon loves him and remembers him for years afterward.
He didn’t think to brag about how much Simon likes to read (and how he taught himself to read).
He didn’t think to brag about how good Simon is at horseback riding, bowling, or baseball.
He didn’t think to brag about the how Simon taught himself to float and swim.
Clearly, there’s very little to brag about when it comes to his grandson.
Maybe I should make him a list.
I’m always railing about tolerance and support for individuals with autism and their families. So when I got hit by the obvious hammer last night, I felt like the stupidest person in the world.
Simon participates in Special Olympics bowling. He loves it. We love it. It’s awesome.
But two or three years ago, he was on a lane with a teenager who apparently had a few more issues than he did. The teenager first whipped out his penis and started stroking it. Not a big deal to me. Clearly, that was his thing. Okay. The aide with him told him to put it away, and he did.
I guess that bothered him, though, because when they were doing all the opening ceremonies, he reached out and smacked Simon on the top of the head.
Not a little gentle tap, either. A loud THWAP that must have hurt because Simon started crying and freaking out. Couldn’t blame him – a completely surprising smack on the head would probably make me cry and freak out, too.
The teenager was moved away, we comforted Simon, and it looked like the game was going to go on.
Something else happened with the teenager, though, and next thing we knew, he was pulled from the game and his parents were called to come pick him up.
And I thought horrible, horrible thoughts.
At the time, I didn’t think they were horrible thoughts. They were thoughts about defending my son. I was glad the teenager was tossed out. What is wrong with his parents? I thought. Why aren’t they here? Why aren’t they working with him more?
Time for the obvious hammer.
Really, Kate? I asked myself last night as I was thinking back on the bowling day. Really?
The parents (or other caregivers – I had and have no idea about his home life situation) might not have been there for any number of reasons, including the fact that maybe they were just reveling in some time off. No one wants to be a martyr, but it can be hard. It can be tiring. It can be one of those things where a few hours of time off makes all the difference in the world. Maybe they had to work to help pay for his therapy or even just their lives.
For all I knew, they had been working with him. They could have tried therapies, could have tried medications, could have tried psychological care. I didn’t know what they tried. I didn’t know what they had done. He could have been getting 50 hours a week of ABA, and it made no difference. I had no idea.
Why the hell was it okay for me to judge them?
Because, and here’s the super important thing, I DON’T GET TO JUDGE THEM. It doesn’t matter if they’ve done all or none of those things. I don’t need to make excuses. They don’t need to make excuses. Because, let me repeat it again, I DON’T GET TO JUDGE THEM.
It’s super easy to judge. It’s easy to forget that we don’t have that right. Easy to think that we know better, that we’d do better, that we’d be better. But, news flash from the obvious hammer, it’s not our business, and it’s not our right to judge them.
The sad part is how long it took me to realize that I’d been doing it in that situation. I had been proud that, while I tried to offer advice and help and experience, I hadn’t judged without knowing a situation. Fail.
Thanks, obvious hammer!
(To be fair, there are times when judgment is acceptable. A parent killing their child? Judged. A parent who abused their child? Judged. A parent who doesn’t care and neglects their child? Judged. That’s a whole different blog, though…)
Okay, maybe it’s not a true sickness. But it’s one that I caught in my childhood, Patrick caught in his childhood, too. Now it’s Simon’s turn.
I’ve been waiting for this day. I’ve been hoping for this day. I’ve been praying for this day.
And it’s finally come.
Simon has had favorite books before. Every night, he wants to read Goodnight, Moon. By now, everyone has that memorized. (In the great green room…)
We’ve been going to the library at least once a week, and he loves it, but he always tended to get the same books over and over. Board book, specifically. Simple ones, intended for toddlers.
I was fine with that. At least he had an interest in books. But there wasn’t much to them. A word or two a page with a picture.
Then it was summer, and we were bored. We started to go to thrift stores on a semi-regular basis.
He began getting books there. $1.00 here. $.50 there. His collection began to grow.
And then…we went to a thrift store, and he began getting cranky with me. I asked him what he wanted – normally that’s answered with the response of “a big hug!” – but that time he said, “books.”
We went over to the kid’s book area.
I searched the shelves, but I couldn’t find anything that he wanted. Then he reached in, almost randomly it seemed, and he pulled out an “Early Reader” Blue’s Clues book.
I had totally missed it, but he found it. I guess we don’t need to worry about him getting glasses anytime soon.
The minute he pulled it out, he opened it and began reading it. He read it all the way through. When I asked him if he wanted it, he said, “Yes.” Another irregular response – most of the time, he says “no” when asked if he wants things.
We went and bought it, and as soon as we got into the car, he said, “You can have your book when we get home.”
“Do you want it now?”
I passed it into the backseat, and he immediately began reading it again.
The torch has been passed. We have a reader on our hands.