Happy Birthday, Martoofer

Yesterday on our way to church, I had this conversation with Charley…


“Uh, member, Mom, Martoofer King birfday amowow.”


“You mean Martin Luther King?”


“Yeah.”


“Do you know who Martin Luther King was?”


“Yeah.”


“Well, who was he?”


“Martoofer.”


“Do you know why we celebrate his birthday?”


“Yeah.”


I waited, thinking he’d offer the reason, but he was busy playing with the buttons on the car heater. Turning them up, turning them down. Burning us up, freezing us out.


“Well, why is his birthday so important?”


“No schoolt!”


“So that’s it? School’s out? Is that all?”


“Yeah.”


He then started playing with the radio station buttons. Country. “I Love You this Big.” Pop. “Baby, Baby, Don’t Get Hooked on Me.” Oldies. “Come On People Now, Smile on your Brother, Everybody Get Together, Try and Love one Another Right Now.”


“Hey, Charley, that’s the first song I ever learned to play on my guitar!” I said, “It’s a great song for Martin Luther King Day.”


“Oh, coolt.”


More button pushing.


“Hurry into Kohl’s for the Martin Luther King sale. Everything is 50% off,” the announcer said.


“See?” Charley said, "Martoofer birthday."


“Okay son, we need to talk. First of all, they are having a sale to celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday. That’s not what his birthday is all about.”


"Huh?"


"So you got it? His birthday is why you've got the day off school. It's part of the celebration."


More radio station surfing.


“Mom, I boat.”


“You what?”


"I BOAT. Geeze, Mom." He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand like he does when he's close to calling me an idiot.


"Say it again, son."


“I boat. You boat. In da boof."


"You mean vote?"


"Yeah."


“You get to vote for President?”


“Yeah, Pwesidence day.”


“That's right. We vote for President, but not for Martin Luther King. Voting comes later during the election.”


“Oh.”


“Martin Luther King wasn’t President; he was a civil rights leader.”


“Oh.”


“Do you know what civil rights means?”


“Stop it, Mom.”


“It means he fought for the rights of people like Chris (an African American young man in Charley’s class), and for people like you, Charley.”


“Me?”


“Yes, you. And me, and Daddy.”


“Why?”


We didn't talk for a moment. Just listened to the next commercial, about some other MLK sale, and how we needed to hurry before everything was gone, because it only happens once a year.


I was the one who broke the silence.


“Charley, do you know what Down Syndrome is?”


“Yes.”


“Do you know that you have Down Syndrome?”


“No I are not.”


“Yes you do.”


“Not me.”


“Charley, Down Syndrome is not a bad thing. It just means you are special.”


“Me?”


“Yes. It means God loved you enough to give you an extra chromosome. That means you have something most of us don’t have. It means that some people think of you as different.”


“Not me,” he said.


“It’s okay to be different, Son.”


“Yes I are.”


“Martin Luther King, Jr. wanted everyone to be treated the same.”


“Coolt!”


One of the things I like most about Charley is that it's never occurred to him not to be comfortable in his own skin.


“Schoolt out amowwow?”


“Yes, school’s out tomorrow.”


“Yay! I like dat King guy.”


“He would have like you too, son.”

Sermon Mom

Today was my turn to deliver the children’s sermon at church. I don’t do this very often because kids intimidate me – first, they are much smarter than I ever was at their age - okay, I admit it, they are so much smarter than I am at my current age. Second, they usually look at me like I’m weird because - I am. And third, the last time I was in charge of Sunday school some of the kids escaped and went running around the church in search of Kool-Aid, and as I recall, a couple of those kids had ditched their diapers. And fourth, when faced with kids staring at me in front of the church I have this tendency to do the Lucille Ball freeze. I simply cannot remember what I was going to say, which means I talk until I think of something to say, which means it may or may not have a point.

But that was 25 years ago, so when Brad told me I was to give the children’s sermon I reminded him that I’m not a good children’s sermon person. “You can do it,” he said, “I’ll help you.” So, in a weak moment I said yes, and found myself mid-way through church – sitting with the kids up in front, with a microphone in my hand trying not to melt down.

Today the sermon was about paying attention to the things God wants us to do, and listening to Him. I gave Brad instructions to call me on my cell phone a couple of times during the message so I could make a point about “tuning in” to God, and not being too busy to pay attention to what God is trying to tell us.

Well. I started talking to the kids. The phone rang. “I have to take t his call,” I said, and chatted a moment and then hung up. The kids looked at me like, “Are you for real? A cell phone in church?”

So I turned back to the kids, and Brad called my phone again. This time it was a text message, so I said "excuse me" to the kids and then texted back.

And so it went. I thought I was actually doing well with getting my point across when the cell phone rang for the last time. Now I couldn’t have scripted this any better myself, but my son decided he'd better set me straight - so - he got up from his seat, walked to the front of the church, and leaned into my face.

“Mom, you off cell phone, NOW!”

Oh. My. Lord. He actually thought I was talking on the phone during church, and offended? Yes indeed, he’d had just about enough of that.

Later on our way home in the car I said, “Honey, I wasn’t really talking on the phone during church.”

“Yes eee are,” he said, indicating that this was exactly what I was doing.

“Well, yes, I was, but it wasn’t real.”

He put his hands on his hips, like, are you even kidding me? Just what are you trying to pull here?

“I was just pretending.”

“Come on, Sherry,” he said. The kid had a point – I was on the phone. It’s just that sometimes Charley’s Down Syndrome prevents him from understanding the abstract.

“Honey, I was giving the children’s sermon,” I said.

“Stop it mom, you no Daddy. You no Sermon Man.” (That’s what he calls Brad.)

“No, I’m not the Sermon Man, I said, I’m the sermon Mom.”

Well he thinks this is hilarious and laughs out loud. “You funny homan,” he said. (woman)

“What, you think I can’t give a sermon?”

“No not.”

“Trust me, Moms can give sermons.” (At church it’s the sermon according to Brad – but at home? It’s the gospel according to me – especially when someone has forgotten to clean his room, pick up the coke cans off the floor, or other unmentionable, disgusting habits).

"Remember the sermon on the mount?"

"Mount?" he said with this bewildered look on his face.

"Yes, mount - the sermon you got when I couldn't see over that MOUNTain of clothes you had in the middle of your floor."

"Ha!"

“Tell you what, next time YOU can give the children’s sermon,” I said.

“Stop it Mom.”

“Why not? You are so much like your Dad.”

“I like him,” he said, flashing that irresistible grin of his.

“I do too.”

So I kept talking – looking at the road, driving. “You see,” I said, I was trying to tell the kids that when someone is talking we shouldn’t be preoccupied with things like cell-phones and texting. We need to tune in and pay attention. That way we make people feel valued. It’s a way we show people that we appreciate them. You understand son?”

“No response.”

“Charley, are you listening?”

“Silence.”

I look over at him – he’s got his headphones on, listening to the soundtrack GREASE.

So I drive on a few more minutes, contemplating a detour through the Krispy Kreme drive-through window – after all, I believe I can justify that it’s been a two-donut morning - but then I reconsider because I need gas more than I need do-nots and only have so much cash in my pocket, and wait-a-minute – what’s that noise? Or should I say lack of noise?

He’s quiet again. Now. Now is the time to get my point across – go for it Sherry, jump right in there…

“Honey, sometimes we are called to listen. That means we are to stop all the noise – the cell phones, the music, the donuts, the talking.”

No response.

“Charles Benjamin, I’m trying to talk to you.”

Still no response.

“Charley Palmer, are you listening to me?”

I look over at him – he’s asleep.

Can’t say I blame him.

It's my money and I want it now!

Charley loves riding the school bus because he loves his bus driver. (That's Crystal on the right, and Amy on the left - he likes Amy too). As far as he’s concerned, Crystal (Crystalt) as he calls her, belongs to him. She is to pay attention to him. She is to bring him a beer for the ride home (it’s really a root beer but he calls it a beer because he thinks it makes him look cool). So, Crystal being the good natured person she is, brings him his “beer” and brings him back up the mountain. There are those days, however, when things come up and she is unable to pick him up or bring him home. Charley just hates that. One of those days was today.

We received one of those letters in the mail from the Social Security office. I don’t know about the rest of the families with special needs kids, but whenever we get one of those letters it is a heart stopping moment.

“What do you think they want?” one of us says.

“I don’t know, but we better call right away,” says the other.

So we do a stampede to the phone and dial the number five hundred thousand times only to get a recording that says if we’ll leave our name and number someone will get back with us which we know is a big fat lie because no one ever calls us back, and the only way to find out what they want is to go directly to the office with the letter in hand and wait for what seems like forever to be seen by an interviewer.

And we do this because when you are summoned to the office you had better show your face because they state clearly in the letter that if you let the “appointment” date pass you by they will stop the SSI check, which is the kiss of death because the last thing you want is for your child not to have some form of income should anything happen to you.

So, once a year we turn ourselves in. We haven’t had to do that in a long time because we haven’t received SSI for Charley since we lived in New York and that was only for a 5 month period until I found part time work. We paid consequences for signing up for SSI back then because they sent us a nasty letter stating that they had “overpaid” us and that we owed them several thousands of dollars, so we didn’t want to get involved with that organization again. Still, you do what you have to do.

That was 15 years ago. Now that our son is an adult we thought we had better sign him up again so he can have some independence and let's face it, the five dollars he was earning monthly at the sheltered workshop might buy him one chicken nuggets meal, french fries, and a Doctor Pepper (with no ice of course). It would hardly be enough to sustain him.

So, sign up we did. That was last year, and like clock work we received the recertification letter. This morning we piled into the car and then headed down the mountain. But not before I officially made him mad. He likes to be the last one out of the house because that means he can monitor the door to make sure it doesn’t get locked. Charley doesn’t appreciate a locked door because that means he has to wait for us to get out of the car and unlock it for him when we return home. So this morning, in true Charley fashion, he stood in front of the door, blocking me so I could not get to the lock.

“You first,” he said.

“No, you first,” I said.

“Mommy, go.”

"No, YOU go," I said.

“You want the umbrella?” I said and handed it to him. As he opened it and bounded down the stairs I turned around and locked the door. He did not notice, of course, because he was busy playing with the umbrella. I proceeded to follow along behind him, running between the raindrops.

“Where goin’ Daddy Brad?” he said, as he handed the wet umbrella to me and slid across the car seat.

“Put your seatbelt on,” I said.

“Hmmmphhh!” he said.

“Daddy, where goin’?”

Brad said, “We’re going to an appointment.”

"No pointment, no," he said.

To Charley an appointment can mean many things; the doctor, the respite care office, the sheltered workshop coordinator, the school. In his brain this means someone is going to discuss his behavior, take notes about him while he is sitting there, make him take off his shirt, take his blood pressure, poke at his teeth, look in his ears, or something that makes him think he's a bug under a microscope. Come to think of it, the thought of an appointment doesn't sound so good to me either.

“No teef,” he said.

"Don't worry, there will be no teeth involved," I said, and proceeded to tell him it was not a dentist appointment and then explained to him we were going to the Social Security office.

“Why?” he said.

“Because they sent us a letter and we have to go meet with them,” Brad said.

“Those guys no know me,” he said.

“They will know you after you go meet them,” I said.

“Dindow up,” he said. (Meaning, “Roll the window up”).

I had the window cracked because the air in Brad’s car has only two settings – full blast, and off.

So I rolled the window up and we suffocated and drove on.

“Where goin'?” he asked again.

Explaining to him about the Social Security office meant absolutely nothing to him.

“We’re going to see about your money,” I told him.

“Money?” he said. Well that got his attention.

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes, for you,” I said.

So in to the Social Service office we went.

Brad went to sign us in, and I took a seat and drank my coffee. Charley sat on the floor. He does that sometimes when he is nervous. He’s afraid people are going to look at him. Of course, if he decides to look at them its perfectly all right. But buddy, they better not look at him.

So he sat on the floor, picking at his fingers.

The lady called his name, and up we went to the counter we went, and answered the questions, then they called us to an office in the back where we answered more questions.

A nice man interviewed us.

“Charley, are you married?” He asked.

“No!!!!!” Charley said, and started laughing.

“Has there been any change in address in the past year?”

“Yes,” he said.

“No,” Brad corrected him.

“Has there been any change in financial status?”

“Yes.”

Brad corrected him again.

The questions continued and of course, every time he should have answered yes he said no, and every time he should have answered no he said yes. What a kid.

The interview ended and Brad and I stood up to leave.

Charley stayed in his seat.

“Come on Charley,” Brad said.

“I not leeeeeveeeeng,” he said.

Brad and I looked at him. The man behind the desk looked at us and asked, “Does he think he’s here to get money?” Like sure, can we have some?

I looked at my son. I looked at the man. I looked at my son again. I wasn’t sure but decided there might just be a stand off.

“Thank you for coming in,” said the man.

"I waiting," Charley said.

"Bye now," said the man.

“My money now!” Charley said. (Oh, I get it, he saw that commercial – the one where the guy says, “It’s my money and I want it now.”)

“See you next time,” said the man. Did he really think this was going to work?

“Come on son, stop fooling around,” Brad said.

He crossed his arms as if to say, “Who’s fooling?”

“We come here to fill out applications honey,” I said, “This isn’t a bank.”

"My money," he insisted.

"This office does not give cash," I said.

"Yes I are!" he said, “I not leeeeeeveeeng my money!”

So Brad pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and slipped to the man behind the desk, who handed us a piece of paper and said, “This is for your review,” and then he handed the dollar bill to Charley and said, “And here is your money sir.”

“Thank you,” Charley said with a big grin on his face and then flapped the dollar bill back and forth in the air.

And then just like that, the interview was over. Charley stood up. “I go now.”

Off we went to deliver him to school, where he could eat what he calls "kiken bones," meaning, bone-in chicken, which is something he really likes but I don't let him have it at home because I'm afraid he'll choke on the bones. As we pulled up to the school he opened the door to hop out, and turned around and let his position be known, "And Daddy, no uppin' me again!" (This means Dad, you are not to pick me up at school because that means you are interloping on my Crystal time).

Now hear this…if you are headed to the Social Security office and think you are going to enter the building empty handed and come out with money, think again. It’s just not going to happen. Just forget it. You just keep dreaming.

Or…you could just borrow Charley.

The House With the Mouse

Return of the Bunny's Butt

1985 - Somewhere in Oklahoma -

It didn't take me long to realize that my new husband and I differed on the way things should be done...

One morning about 3 weeks after we were married, I woke to find that my husband's cat had brought me the rear end of a rabbit. Worse, he had placed it on my pillow while I was sleeping. Feeling something tickle my cheek, I opened one eye thinking it might be a spider. It was the cat, jumping from the pillow to the floor, leaving the bunny's buttocks behind. I sat up with my mouth hanging open, and screamed as loud as I could.

“Braaaaaaad!”

Brad came running.

I pointed at the offensive little fanny. "I'm not accustomed to having the buttocks of strange animals deposited on my bed," I explained. "Please get rid of it!"

Thinking that was the end of that, I tossed the pillowcase into the laundry basket and went about my daily routine when less than an hour later something caught my eye. It was the cat, tiptoeing across the carpet. Once again he brought me the bunny's you-know-what and placed it a little too close for comfort.

I went back to the doorway once again to find Brad who was in the process of fixing himself a mega-sized iced tea. Try being nice.

"Honey,” I said, this time with my voice a little more genteel. "The butt is back. I thought you got rid of it."

Once again, there came my husband to the rescue, charging forth with my brand new barbeque tongs in hand (yes, the ones I received as a wedding gift), and with a wide sweeping motion he snatched the little carcass from the couch.

"Where did you put it last time?" I asked with the sweetest tone of voice that I could muster.

"I threw it on the roof,” he said. Dad said we have to be nice to each other. I remind myself of that sometimes.

"Well, this time, could you pick a place a little less traveled by the cat? And make sure it's gone for good, PLEASE." It was not a request.

Now I figure it this way...once is an event, twice is a pattern. And as far as I could tell, there was a pattern developing here, because for a third time, the cat appeared in the doorway grinning from ear to ear, and looking rather smug. And why wouldn't he be? For the third time in the same day, he had hunted and captured the same rabbit’s rear, and had proceeded to sneak it into the house. This time he deposited the fluffy little fanny at my feet. I do believe my husband was playing a joke on me. He knew the cat would keep bringing it back to me. I was not amused.

"Bradley Ernest Pitt Palmer,” I all but screamed from the doorway, "your cat has returned with the rear. What did you do with it last time?”

"I tossed it into the bushes," he answered, smiling.

“Very funny! I want the thing gone,” I yelled. It was obvious that someone was not communicating.

So. That's the way you want to play it, huh? Okay, have it your way.

This time I was the one with the tongs. I took a deep breath, reminded myself not to look too closely, scooped up the pitiful posterior, and headed to the one place I knew my husband would be sure to look. Without the slightest hesitation, I opened up the mailbox, tossed the tail end in, slammed the lid, then poured myself a glass of ice-cold lemonade with real sugar and all, drew back the curtains of the living room, and waited at the window for my husband to retrieve his mail.

Just as I predicted, he opened the lid, reached in without looking, pulled out the bun, and started to run. This time I was the one who was smiling. Perhaps we could communicate after all.

That was 19 years, four dogs, three cats, about twelve lizards, and I don’t know how many mice ago.

Missy Cat

Charley loves Missy Cat. He loves it when she sits and waits for him outside his door although he refuses to let her into his room, for whatever reason, and he loves it when she sits with him before he gets on the school bus in the morning.

He loves it when I put pink blush on her snow white cheeks.

He loves it when she sits in his lap and look adoringly up into his face, and I do believe he’s right when he says, “OOk Mom, Missy Cat smi-o-wing!”

Charley’s job is to tell us when the cat’s bowl is empty. Brad’s job is to fill the bowl with food. My job is to let her sit between my computer keyboard and me or on top of my books, and we all have the job of making sure she doesn’t get out the door. It goes like this…

Someone opens the door.

Everyone else yells, “Shut the door.”

“Don’t let the cat out.”

“Watch it, the cat’s gonna get out.”

“Shut the door, will ya?”

Then we look around and notice that she is on her usual perch on the back of the couch sound asleep ignoring us all.

Missy Cat’s job is to catch the mice. And she does it well…

The House With The Mouse

“Mommy, Missy Cat eat da mouse.” Charley is standing in the doorway.

“That’s nice honey,” I say.

“Mommy, Missy Cat eat darn mouse,” he says again, this time with more oomph.

“I heard you the first time,” I say, and open one eye. It’s blurry but if I squint I can just make out the numbers on the clock. It’s about 2:15 am. “Honey, go back to bed, we’ll worry about it in the morning.

Charley gives up on me. He goes around the bed to his Dad.

“Daddy, da mouse mouse in da hallwee,” he says.

Brad is snoring. Or that’s a train. No, wait, there are no tracks around here.

“Charley, let Daddy sleep,” I say.

“Mom, get up!” he says.

“I’m sleeping,” I say, and somewhere I think I heard him say something about a mouse which isn’t a good thing because I don’t DO mice.

When I was in college I was studying for a final exam. It was about 3:00 in the morning and cold, so I got my robe out of the closet and put it on. All of a sudden I felt feet on my back, and before I knew it a mouse had gotten stuck in my hair. I had very long hair at the time, and I pulled my hair out in a sort of pony tail in front of my face and there was the mouse, just squealing.

So I started squealing. No, I started screaming. I ran to my roommate and yelled, “There’s a mouse in my hair!”

She was of no help whatsoever because she jumped up on her bed and grabbed a broom and started beating me over the head.

So I ran to the trailer next door. One of the guys opened the door and I said, “Help Tim, I’ve got a mouse in my hair.”

“Eewww,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t do mice.”

So I ran back to my trailer and called the police. The officer answered and I yelled, “Help, there’s a mouse in my hair.”

He asked for my address and a couple of minutes later there were two patrol cars out in front of the trailer with the blue lights flashing. By this time the neighborhood was up and people were standing outside watching.

I answered the door and the officer said, “Is this the house with the mouse?” I could see he was smirking.

“I’m glad you think this is so funny,” I said, “But could you please help me get this mouse out of my hair?”

“Sure,” he said, “Where are your scissors?” I freaked as he cut my hair.

As I lay dreaming about that day back in 1976 I thought I was also dreaming that Charley had come to our room, when all of a sudden, yank! The covers are now on the floor. I guess I’m getting up.

“What were you saying?” I ask him.

“Missy Cat got da mouse. Cose you eyes,” he says. Not a problem, they are still shut.

He ushers me out into the hall and says, “Okay, eyes open.”

I peel my eyes open and sure enough, there’s the cat standing over her latest conquest.

I’m not surprised really; after all, we do live in the country and it’s freezing outside.

It seems I remembered the cat meowing and running after something earlier in the evening. I had said, “Brad, I think the cat is chasing a mouse.”

We looked at each other for a moment and immediately formulated a plan of action, and in our house that translates to if- you-don’t-look-at-it, it-will-go-away.

And now, here it was, laid out in lavender in the hallway.

“Mom, you get it?” Charley says.

“Not on your life,” I say and march into the bedroom. If that man thinks I’m going to get rid of a mouse while he pretends to be asleep he’s got another thing coming.

“Brad, the cat killed a mouse.” I say.

No response.

“Brad honey, there’s a mouse in the hallway.

No response.

How dumb does he think I am? When he’s not snoring, he’s not sleeping.

“Come on faker, get up.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says.

“Not anymore,” I say.

Charley runs into the room.

“Missy Cat stop,” he yells like it’s an emergency. I go back to the hall. The cat is flinging the mouse up in the air.

“We’re waiting,” I say to Brad, standing there with my hands on my hips.

“And I’m sleeping,” he says as he slides off the bed and makes his way out to the hall.

The three of us stand over the mouse.

“Is it dead?”

“It’s not moving.”

“Is it breathing?”

“Sure looks dead.”

“Yep, he’s a goner.”

“I hate darn mouse,” Charley says. That makes three of us.

“Stuart Little bites the dust,” Brad says.

“I got dat movie,” Charley says.

“At least it wasn’t in my hair,” I say.

Brad grabs the dust pan. “I can’t find the broom,” he says, and why not? He's only half asleep and I'm standing right in front of him holding it.

All of a sudden, I become brave. “Open the door and I’ll sweep it out,”

So the door opens.

“Don’t let the cat out.”

Sweep.

The mouse slides under the crack between the door and the floor.

“Mommy, you missed.” Charley says. Do ya think?

I never was very good at golf.

Sweep.

The mouse bounces off the door stopper.

“Miss again,” says Charley.

“Well then why don’t one of you birds take a whack at it if you think you can do so much better?” I say.

So Charley grabs the broom. “Batter up!”

Swing.

“Charley, you missed,” I say.

“Stop it Mom,” he says and laughs out loud.

“Daddybrad, you up!” Charley says.

Brad reaches back with the broom and gives it a good whack.

The mouse sort of bounces off the metal doorstopper again and slides on the floor back towards us. Charley and I scream and I run out of the way nearly knocking each other down. Don’t ask me why we are running, the thing is dead.

There comes a time when you stop being afraid of the mouse and the only thing left to do is to sweep it into the dustpan, which is what Brad does. He scoops the little critter up and flings it into the bushes.

So there we stand, the three of us, peering into the dark of the night.

“Do you think we should say a few words?” Brad says. So we bow our heads.

“Rest in pieces,” I say.

“Amen,” says Brad.

“Men,” says Charley.

Well, glad that’s over, now we can go back to bed.

We can still sleep four hours.

The heads are fixin’ to hit the pillows.

The covers are fixin’ to get pulled back up over the bodies.

The cat is fixin’ to take a cat nap.

The lights get turned off.

The screaming starts.

The lights get turned back on.

“Mommy, Daddy tep on bug.”

Brad is jumping around in the middle of the floor, yelling “OWWWWWEEEE.”

The thing is fluttering its wings. I lean in for a closer look. It’s a wasp.

I jump on top of it, with shoes of course.

“It’s dead,” I say. “Flattened like a bug.”

“I hate darn bug,” says Charley.

“Better get the dust pan,” says Brad.

The wasp is swept up.

The family gathers in the doorway.

The wasp is tossed outside.

We peer out into the night.


Monday rolls around and you-know-who is refusing to get out of bed.

“The bus is on its way,” Brad says.

“Go way,” Charley says.

“It’ll be here any minute,” he says.

“Go way.”

He’s pretending to be asleep.

Time to play good cop, bad cop. Me being the bad cop, Brad being the good cop. We should have trained him better to get out of bed, that’s for sure.

I go to his room. “Charley, if you miss the bus you’re going to be in big time trouble,” I say and give his covers a yank.

He’s ignoring me.

“I’m going to let Missy Cat into your room.”

Ignoring continues.

“Get up or I’m going to take your TV out of your room.

More ignoring.

I take a string and tickle his ear. "Charley, there's a bug on you," I say.

"No not," he says as he swats at me and misses.

Brad goes to his room. “Charley, please get up.”

He yells, “No.”

“Please, get up for Daddy.”

“No kank-u,” he says.

I go to his room with the water bottle and spray him with it.

The covers are pulled over his head.

“Well do you think you could get out of bed so we can get the mouse out of your room?
Buddy, oh buddy, the covers are flung off the body.

The feet hit the floor.

And he’s off!

He’s running down the hall.

He’s sitting on the couch.

He’s putting on the shoes.

The door flings open.

He’s out the door.

He’s down the steps.

He’s running to the bus.

“Shut the door!” Brad yells.

The two of us stand peering out into the early morning light.

The cat is sleeping on her perch.

Who’d-a-thunk-it? The kid is mouse-trained.

Sorry Charley

Charley has a new nickname. “Amy, I’m sorry Charley.”

He owes Amy an apology, and until he comes forth and does the right thing, that’s what his new nickname is. So don’t be afraid to use it! The next time you see Charley say, “Hi Amy I’m sorry Charley!”

Or, you could just leave that to me. Since it is between us, that is, and because he’ll probably get mad at you if you call him that.

What? You’re wondering what it was that the little buzzard did? Well let me put it this way; he did it to me before he did it to Amy.

We’re sitting on the couch Friday and waiting for the bus, just half asleep as always, when out of nowhere, Charley says to me, “Oose weet,” Mom.

“You sweet too,” I say.

“No, oose weet,” he says.

“And so are you,” I say.

So he peels himself off the couch and walks over to me, points at my stomach and says “No Mom, Ooose weet, and Daddy too.”

Oh I get it. He’s saying, “Lose weight.” Okay, let’s get this out of the way right this second. I’ve been struggling lately, not wanting to stay on my diet. Well, that’s not all together true. I want to stay on the diet but just put one teeny little thing in front of me as a deterrent, and as Brad says, "The flesh is weak," and could you please pass the Krispy Crème?

“I take back all the nice things I was thinking about you,” I say, and he starts to laugh.

And then, and then, and THEN, he just couldn’t leave it alone. He says, “Amy oose weet.”

Oh no. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. “Charley, did you tell Amy she needed to lose weight?”

He says, “Yeah.” Well just color us socially inappropriate next time.

I say, “Charley you can’t go around hurting people’s feelings like that.”

He says, “No not.”

“Son, you need to apologize,” I say,

“No not.”

So I say, “How would you like it if Amy called you That Downs Boy?”

“Not me,” he says.

And I say, “Well she could if she wanted to, you do have Down Syndrome, you know.”

“No not,” he says.

“And, while we are on the subject, you, my friend, are not exactly a skinny minnie.”

“Yes I are,” he says.

“Okay, repeat after me, Amy, I’m sorry,” Charley.

“No.”

“Yes, say it.”

“No.”

Okay, repeat after me, “Charley’s not getting any milkshakes or chicken nuggets until he apologizes to Amy.”

He puts his hand on his hip.

“You ARE going to apologize to Amy, aren’t you?”

He blinks at me.

“This school’s out,” he says.

“Fine, then you can apologize on Monday,” I say.

Another blink. (He does this when he’s thinking something he better not say).

So I grab the camera and tell him to strike a pose.

Snap.

Voila, a picture of Charley’s stomach.

“See Charley? You’re no skinny minnie either.”

He says, “You take pitchur you!” pointing to my stomach.

Not on your life.

“I’m telling Ronald on you,” I say.

“No not, no Ronalt, no!” he says.

Charley doesn’t like it when I tell on him to Ronald because he knows Ronald will give him the business. Ronald understands all about Charley because his brother Tony had Downs. So when we get to church on Sunday I ask Ronald if he’ll help me play a joke on Charley, and he says “Sure!” and when Ronald gets up to lead the singing he calls on Charley and says that sometimes when we do something wrong we are need to apologize, and then asks Charley if he’s an “Amy I’m sorry Charley.”

Well let me tell you, Charley just hangs his head, and I do mean in shame. Ronalds starts leading the singing, and Charley turns to me and says, “Mommy!” as in, how could you?

So the weekend passes and at every opportunity I’m reminding him about the Amy-I’m-sorry-Charley thing, and Monday is finally here and he's gotten off the bus. I go walking down the steps to see if he did in fact apologize to Amy like he was supposed to, and here he comes down the sidewalk, with his head hung down, and walks right past me, stomps up the steps and plops his rear end down into the rocking chair on the porch. Uh oh, upset child alert.

“Hi son,” I say, just as cheerfully as I know how.

“Don’t talk me!”

“Why not?”

“I MAD!” he says, and I can see that he’s crying, and it melts me like butter.

“What happened?” I ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Crytalt tookin’ my beer!” (It’s really a root beer but he calls it “beer” because he thinks it makes him look cool, and of course, don’t forget the shock effect of those around who have no idea he’s really talking about root beer).

“She took your beer away?” I say.

“Yes.”

More tears.

By then Crystal has gotten off the bus and is making her way down the sidewalk. I go walking toward her, and of course, you-know-who is on my heels because heaven forbid that I might actually have a conversation with someone without Mr. Nosey hearing every word.

So Crystal proceeds to tell me that she took Charley’s root beer away from him because he took Sammy’s pencils and then lied to her when she asked him about it.

Charley has caught up to us now and has his head buried in my chest, with big wet tears.

“Well what did you go and do that for?” I ask."Why did you take Sammy's pencils?"

"I play joke on Sammy," he says. Uh huh, I'm sure Sammy thought that was real funny.

And as if that wasn't bad enough,he had to go and lie to Crystal about it. Crystal is Charley’s bus driver and he just loves her. He would do just about anything for Crystal and doesn’t want to be out of favor with her, and now Crystal has gone and taken his beer for lying to him.

“You took my beer Crystalt!”

So the three of us stand out in the yard talking about the infraction, and Crystal says that she gets him a root beer every day for the bus ride home, which is mighty nice of her, but she cannot tolerate Charley lying to her about Sammy’s pencils.

I ask Charley if he’s given all the pencils back and he says yes, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a yellow eraser. Crystal opens her hand and he gives it to her. Sometimes I have to remind myself that this is a 19-year-old boy with a beard.

So the three of us come to an agreement. Charley is to get on the bus “good” in the morning. He is to wear his jacket like he is supposed to, and he is to take his medicine so I won’t have to follow him out to the bus with it, and he is to have a good attitude, and he is NOT to take Sammy’s pencils again, and then Crystal says she will give back his beer.

Crystal says goodbye and hops back on the bus and drives away.

Charley and I turn and walk back to the house.

He’s still not in a very good mood, but I am usually able to needle him a little until he come out of his funk.

We walk off arm in arm heading toward the house.

“Repeat after me,” I say, “Tammy, I’m sorry,” Charley.

Hello Mr. Chips

Some days you just can’t win. There comes a time in life when you want to know that you are smarter than your kid. It is particularly frustrating when such knowledge is not readily forthcoming.

My child is no different from the rest of us. He is a creature of habit. One of his habits is that he likes to sit in front of the TV with a bowl of chips and a big glass of chocolate milk. The problem is that he has gotten a bit sloppy in his chip chomping.

One morning I walked into the den and something crunched under my foot. I stood there frozen in my footsteps, hoping that I hadn’t just stepped on a big ugly bug. I looked down at the floor and found that it was not a furry ankle biter. It was a potato chip. That did it. I pointed to the chip. “Did you make that mess?”

“No Mom,” he said, his innocent blues eyes pleading with me to drop the subject. Well, he was partially right. He had dropped only one chip. So what was the big hairy deal? So what of it? So pick the chip up, and shut up already Sherry. And hey, who had the heavy foot any way? If I hadn’t stepped on it there would just be one chip to clean up instead of something that had been smashed to smithereens. But no. I had to become a human harp.

“There will be no more chips in the den,” I demanded, “until you are capable of keeping them off the floor.” Well, it sounded good to me. I was the mom. He was the kid.

It appeared that I was the only one impressed with this decision because the saga continued. Later the same day after putting the groceries away, I turned to find my son, arms outstretched, with a bowl in his hands.

“Chips Mom,” he said. Like I run a restaurant and he was putting in his order. I hate to tell you this, but this is NOT a drive through window, and he’s not that good a tipper.

I carefully explained that he could have some chips in the kitchen but that he was not, I repeated, NOT to take the chips into the den.

“But Mooooooom”, he whined.

“I have spoken,” I said, like sure, that was going to be that, just because I said so.

So he settled for chips at the kitchen table, and I’m thinking, don’t you dare eat the whole bag because later when you’re looking I am going to veg out in front of Dr. Phil who is going to have guests on the show who have lost tons of weight. I think that calls for a big bowl of chips, don’t you? And while you’re at it, make mine BBQ, thank you very much, and don't forget the dip.

“Leave some for me,” I said, and left him in the kitchen.

About fifteen minutes later when I walked into the den and saw him eating a chip, I just about came unglued.

“I thought I told you no chips in the den.” I stood there waiting for an explanation with my hands on my hips.

He held up a chip. The word here is chip, which is the singular form of chips. Did this mean that he thought one chip was playing by the rules? Or was he simply trying to outthink me, which doesn’t take that much to do any more. The longer I live, the less brain cells, and, well, if you are somewhere between 40 and death then you get what I mean.

“You march right back to that table,” I said. “The only way you are going to eat chips is if your body is in the kitchen.”

This was becoming a mind game, so I decided to sit in the den and keep guard. It sure beat pushing the broom. I flipped on the TV. I don’t know how long it was before I realized that I was not alone.

“Crunch.” I heard the smacking of lips and for once they weren’t mine.

There in the doorway, stretched out on his stomach was my son. He had half of his body in the den on the carpet, and half of his body was on the floor in the kitchen. In his hand was a stack of Pringles.

“I thought I told you to eat those in the kitchen,” I scolded. Where did he get those, anyway? Last I remembered he had a bag of chips, now he’s got a box. Well, who cares, he had chips and the crunching had commenced.

“I am, Mom.” He said. Uh huh, mind games it is then.

“You are in the den,” I said.

He looked back over his shoulder at his rear end and his legs. “Body kitzen.” (Meaning, kitchen).

I had to hand it to him. As far as he was concerned, he WAS in the kitchen. Only his elbows and his head were in the den. It’s like he was looking at me and saying, “Most of me is in the kitchen Mom, you do the math.”

I’ve never been very good at math, but I am pretty good at mind games. Sometimes. Okay, hardly ever. Well, basically never.

Perhaps I’m not the smartest bulb in the box. Or maybe he’s just smarter.

It occurred to me that I could continue to try and flex my Mommie Dearest muscles, or I could seize the moment and enjoy being with my son.

I looked over at him. “Well, are you going to keep all those chips to yourself?” I said.

This could only mean one thing; goodbye Mommy Dearest, Hello Mr. Chips.

I reached over as if he was to hand me the box of Pingles. “Can I have some?” I said.

“Here,” he said, and started to hand the box to me when wait-a-minute, he wasn’t letting go. No, this was more than not letting go. This was a death grip.

“Let go,” I said.

“Make me,” he said, and laughed.

Okay, that’s it. I sort of rolled off the couch and the two of us were in a full-blown tug of war.

“Release the chips, immediately,” I said.

“No, not,” he said.

“Hand over the little contraband,” I said.

“No, not.”

I started tickling him, and halleluia, he let go of the box.

Mine, all mine!

I reached into the box. I pulled out a chip and handed the box backto him. Oh, the anticipation of it all. I put the chip to the lip. He pointed to the kitchen.

“Mom, kitzen,” he said.

So I went over to the doorway, lay down beside him and now we both had our bodies in the kitzen. Sure hope there aren’t any bugs on this floor.


“So. You gonna share those, or what?” I said.

Let the chips fall where they may.

Showers of Blessings

“I not taking no shower!” I told Mom but she just “don’t listen.”

Mom says it’s Sunday. Daddy’s gone to church. And me? I watch my movies.

Mom says “Time for your shower,” but I say, “Call me in two hours.”

She says, “Stop stalling,” and I act like I “no hear her.”

So what does she do? She puts my clothes in the bathroom and hangs up my towel.

I tell her, “Two towels.”

She says, “There are two towels.”

I tell her, “Call me in 2 hours.”

She says, “You’re gonna be late son; get off your hiny.”

I take my shower and get dressed. I say, “Ta Dah!” and she says I look great. I tell her my “pants no work.” I say, “Pants too big.”

She calls me “droopy drawers,” and gets me “more pair” of jeans.

I put on “more pair.”

These pants work. “They no fall down.”

So we go to church. Cassie gives me a coloring book. I color and color while “Sermon Man, Daddy Brad” is talking about who knows what, and people are praying. Kerry and Jana turn around in their seats and look at my coloring. They say my coloring is pretty. I like them.

I color with green all over the paper and Mom starts to cry.

I hear her tell Cassie, “I’ve never seen Charley color before.” Don’t know what she’s blubbering about. She says she's just being sentimental. She's got that right, mental is the word.

There is a coloring book with puppies on it, and Cassie says I can have it. Cassie is Will’s Mommy and she sits in front of me at church. I poke her on the shoulder and she starts to turn around but I turn my head real fast so she won’t know it was me. She turns back around and I poke her again.

I tell Mom “I a good boy” and say “You got a prize for me?”

She says, “Don’t worry; I’ve got your surprise.”

I say, “A good one.” I sure hope it’s not cartoons. That’s for babies. I want a scary movie.

She says, “You’ll take what I’ve got for you and you’ll love it or else.”

Hmmmph. I bet it’s cartoons.

I still coloring. Dad’s still preaching. People still praying. Mom’s still crying. It’s a real fun day.

I help Dad give the benediction. I stand up in front of the church and he puts his arm around me. Just two cool guys giving the benediction. When he raises his hand I raise my hand. When he bows his head I bow my head. When he walks down the aisle I walk down the aisle. Well, until I reach Mom’s pew. I hug Mom and she hugs me back.

“Whelp, church over. I go home now.” I say, “Mom, don’t forget my prize.” Mom catches up with me on the sidewalk and uses her hip to bump me. I bump her back. We bump all the way home. I bump her too hard and she says, “Watch it!”

Mom says I have to wait till Dad gets home, because he hid my prize and she doesn't know where. Sure wish he'd hurry up.

Dad comes home and gives me my “prize” because “I good at church.”

Mom and Dad eat chili. Not me. “I no like chili.”

Mom and Dad are talking about something going on at the church next door at 2:00 today.

Mom’s scrambling around trying to find a bag to wrap her presents.

Mom comes to my door and says, “Charley honey, do you want to go to the shower?”

I say, “I did.” Can you believe that? I had my shower before church, now she wants me to take it again.

She says, “Not that kind of shower son, I mean a baby shower.” How dumb does she think I am?

I go look in the bathroom. “No baby in the shower,” I say, but she says, “A baby shower is a party for someone who is having a baby.”

Party? “I like party. Okay, I go.”

We get to the party and I yell, “I smell Christmas presents!”

Mom says the presents are not for me. Presents are for baby. Then she says, “Don’t worry Christmas is coming soon.”

I eat chicken and Ruth gets me some barbeque sauce and I laugh lots. The lady opens presents. She holds up tiny little clothes. Mom says to me, “Won't those look cute on you?”

I say, “Stop it Mom,” she thinks she is so funny. I say, “You got me a present?”

She picks up a pink clothes pin off the table and hands it to me. She says, “Here, ya go.”

A pink clothes pin. Hmmmmph! “I no baby!” Some shower.

Martha takes my picture with Mom and Jane, and Mom says I’m acting like a funky monkey.

Whelp, I go home now. “Mom, you comin’?”

“Bye guys.”

We’re back home now. Mom says, “How ‘bout that shower?”

“I did,” I say. I already told her that.

The Joker

“Brad, something’s wrong with Charley,” I say.

Thud! Brad’s feet hit the floor and he come’s a runnin’.

“What’s wrong?” he says, as he enters the living room.

“He’s ready for work,” I say, and I’m sorry, but that’s just not like him.

Brad looks at Charley for a minute. “You’re right," he says, "Son, are you feeling okay?”

“Stop it Daddy Brad,” Charley says.

Let the clouds part, let the trumpets sound, let the thunder roll, but the boy is out of the bed and has his shoes on and is in transit to the car to head off to work, even as we speak, which is totally out of character for him since he usually spends about an hour avoiding the inevitable.

At first he did his “I’m not getting out of bed” routine, but then without warning he’s in the living room demanding that I tie his shoes at least 3 times because I couldn’t possibly get it right the first time.

He says, “Daddy, hug Mommy,” so Brad and I hug, and he’s saying, “Mommy loves Daddy, Mommy loves Daddy,” and “You two married,” and the kitty got fed, and out the door he goes, and in a good mood too, smiling and waving, “Bye Mom!”

What up with that?

I stood there for a brief second and then said goodbye and told them I loved them both very much and then Brad starts to disappear down the steps.

But not Charley. No, he just stands there. Waiting for Brad to turn around and he’s dangling the key to the padlock, on a string, kind of swaying it around in circles waiting for Daddy Brad to notice.

Voila! Now I know why he was so anxious to get his shoes and jacket on and head out of the house, the varmint had planned a joke.

Charley is always pulling little pranks. I dare say this, but he probably learned that from me, because there was a time when I was the master practical joker around here but then Charley came along and, well, I’m sorry but I’ve been out pranked more than once.

So I’m looking at that key swinging back and forth in his hand and my mind wanders to all the times he’s hidden my car keys because he didn’t want me to leave for work, and the bologna sandwiches he’s stuck in my knitting bag because he was mad at me, and Brad’s necktie that he flushed down the toilet along with his toy Batman because he wanted to see it swirl around and then disappear, and the clothes he’s hidden behind the chair in the living room because he didn’t like them, and the green shirt he threw in front of the lawn mower and then demanded that I duck tape it back together, and the times he’s hidden under the bed or under the table or in a box, but NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING quite matched the day I received a phone call from Brad saying he couldn’t find his glasses.

I was in Florida visiting Mom and Dad at the time and the phone rang. Brad was on the other end. “I can’t find my glasses anywhere,” he said. I could hear the panic in his voice. No, I could feel the panic. Uh oh, heads are gonna roll.

“Did you look next to the bed?”

“Yes.”

“Did you look next to the couch?”

“Yes.”

“Did you look in my knitting bag?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see them last?”

“How should I know, he said, I can’t see without them!” he said.

“Okay, then when did you have them last?” I asked.

“When I got into the shower,” he said.

“Put Charley on the phone,” I said.

So Charley got on the phone. “Hi Mommy!” he said.

I said, “Son, have you seen Daddy’s glasses?”

Silence.

“Son, did you take Daddy’s glasses?”

Silence.

“Son, are you wearing Daddy’s glasses?”

Silence.

“Son, give Daddy back his eyes,” I said.

“Huh?”

I could tell he was thinking that over. After all, he hadn’t taken Brad’s eyes.

“Son, go and get Daddy’s glasses right now and give them back to him.”

I could tell he had put the phone down because he was no longer breathing into the receiver.

“Charley, are you still there? Hello…Hello...”

Brad got back on the phone. “Did you get it out of him?”

“Not exactly,” I said, “But I think we are getting somewhere.”

“What makes you think that?” he said.

“Because he got real quiet which means he’s trying to find a way to give them back to you without getting in trouble.”

Now Brad was quiet. “Oh,” he said.

“So don’t fuss at him, whatever you do, or he may not tell us the next time he hides our car keys or the umbrella, or our underwear or whatever else he can think up,” I said.

Usually I’m the radar queen. Brad can call me and say “Where’s my…” and I’ll zero right in on whatever he’s misplaced and he can go on with his day. But not that day. He couldn’t go anywhere until he could find his glasses, and someone, Charley-the-joker, knew it.

Since Brad was calling long distance from New York we decided it was best to hang up, at least until we could think of other places he might try looking.

I sat there drumming my fingers on the table, sipping an iced tea and trying not to worry for about 15 minutes when the phone rang.

“Found em’,” he said.

“Where were they?”

“In the garbage can.”

“Well that doesn’t surprise me one bit,” I said, “He knew that would be the last place you’d look.”

I could tell Brad had been shredded and that it was taking all he had not to come unglued at our son, because as he told it, Charley had gotten off the phone with me and had stood beside the garbage can. He didn’t exactly point out the location of the glasses, he just stood there for a long time looking at this Dad.

Finally Brad realized it was a sign and all but did a nose dive into the garbage and started digging. There, at the bottom of all of the garbage, was a pair of glasses. Covered in ketchup of course, but in one piece. Nothing a little soap couldn’t fix, but oh brother, it was garbage day, and Brad was fixing to walk to the garbage bin, and well, let’s just say in fluent Charley language, “Thanks the Lord!”

“Well, you gotta give it to him," I said, "he’s creative.”

I had to swallow my laugh, because poor old Brad had been through enough, but the truth be told I laughed my hinny off after we hung up and if there was any justice in the world when a person such as I laughs her hinny off the very least that should happen is the hinny should stay off. But no. It just keeps coming back.

I guess Charley was about 7 years old at the time. Well, he’s 19 now and all grown up; nothing’s changed except for the beard. And here I stand on the porch with my hand out waiting for him to give me the key and he flings it around in the air and it sort of floats up and then back down again and “Nice catch Dad,” he says and laughs out loud as Brad hands me the key so I wouldn’t be locked in the house all day when I locked the door from the inside.

On the way down the steps he looks over his shoulder at me. “I play game Mom.”

He sort of sings it… "I choke Daddy," he says.

"You choke Daddy?" I says.

"No,I CHOKE Daddy." he says.

Okay, I think we might be having a teeny little communication problem. He's nowhere near Brad, how could he be choking him?

"Say it again son," I said.

Well that did it, If you know anything about people with Downs Syndrome then you know they often have trouble saying their words clearly. I've gone and made him mad, and he stomps back over to me with his hands on his hips. “I hide key on Daddy,” he says, and then laughs so I will think it's funny too.

"Oh, you were trying to say you played a joke on your Dad," I say.

"Duh," he says, "Focus Mom!"

Something tells me it might be one of those days so I go and look in my knitting bag. No,I did not find a bologna sandwich but guess what…I did find my car keys.

Monday Monday, No Good to Me

I hate to have to tell my son this, but most people in the USA do not get valet service to school.

There’s nothing unusual about today except that it’s Monday and that means you-know-who has had a weekend to chill out, and that he takes exception to the fact that he has to get out of his cozy little room and go out into the world like the rest of us.

Brad and I were trying to be nice. We really were. Brad starts calling to him around 5:30. He’s as nice as he can be, and even takes him chicken (Charley’s personal favorite), and tells him it’s time to start waking up for the bus. The bus picks Charley up right out in front of our house.

Ten minutes later Brad is back in the room again, this time standing over the bed.

No response.

“Charley, it’s time to get up,” he says.

No response.

“Okay, I guess I’ll just have to stand here until you show some signs of life.”

“Go away,” a voice says from under the covers.

“You’ve got one half hour and the bus will be here,” Brad says.

Another 15 minutes pass. This time I go to his room.

“Son, you are going to miss the bus, now you’ve got to get up.”

“Go away.”

“Tell you what, you get up and I’ll go away,” I say.

The Superman blanket is tucked nicely around every square inch of his body.

I reach under the covers and tickle his toes.

"Stop it Mommyhead!"

Next I start to pull the covers back.

"Are you coming out or do I have to come in there after you?" I say.

“Go away, I’ll kick you,” he yells.

“You had better NOTt kick me, or you will be in big time trouble, buster,” I say, and walk around his bed to turn off his fan. He just hates that.

“Go away, JERK!”

“Did you just call me a jerk? Now that’s NOT nice,” I say, “Get your hind end out of the bed,the bus is on its way.”

“I NOT going.”

“Oh yes you are.”

"No Not."

I leave the room to collect my composure. The last thing I want to do is melt down and start yelling at him because then he shuts down completely and then good luck getting him to do anything.

He is playing a game with us. He does this every Monday morning. He’s as rude and mean as he can be and then says, “I play game with you guys.”

Well I’ve had it with the game. One of the things he hates the most is when I walk out to the school bus. He thinks this is treating him like a baby, but you know what? This morning he has forfeited his "I'm a big boy" rights by being so ornery, So I think I’ll just mosey out to the bus when it gets here. Either he’s out of the bed with his shoes on, or…

“I’m going to have to go out to the bus,” I say.

“No not.”

“Yes I am,” I say, “This is your last and final warning.”

No movement.

The bus has just pulled up.

“Crystal is here,” I say.

“No not.”

Okay, time to play dirty. I throw Brad’s coat over me and shut the door loud enough for him to hear it, and proceed to go out to the bus to have a little chat with Crystal (the bus driver), and I ask her to give him a lecture on not making the bus wait for him. I tell her to tell him that the next time he pulls this little joke of his that she is going to drive off without him.

He knows what that means. The TV will be taken out of his room and we will spend the day scouring every inch of the house. It will not be fun for either one of us, and that’s a promise, but at least I will have a clean house.

He will beg, cry, and plead for me to give back the TV, but I am the terminator of all mothers and will carry the remote control around in my pocket and make it stick out just enough so he can see it, and he will pay the price for being ugly to us and making Crystal wait, and the day will be spent in hard labor and the bathtub will get scrubbed. Oh, did I forget to mention the toilets? I will hate the day because we will spend it fighting and he will put his arms around my neck and kiss me on the cheek and try his best to sweet talk me which always melts me like butter, and it will kill me but I won’t give an inch.

One thing is for sure, he’d better get his hinny out here to this bus in about 2 seconds or it’s all over but the crying.

Okay, so I’m on the bus and talking with Crystal and suggest that she play the Mr. Bailey card which means she’s going to tell Mr. Bailey on him, and this, along with a stern tone of voice will get his attention because he just loves Crystal and doesn’t want to be out of favor with either her or Mr. Bailey.

Crystal says she’s not mad at him but that she can fake it and will give him a good talking-to and all I can think about is how Charley got kicked off the bus when we first moved here to Tennessee. It seems he was trying to play a joke on the bus driver and swiped his hat off of his head, and the bus driver had no sense of humor whatsoever, and well, the next think we knew we were sitting in a meeting in the Principal’s office being told that Charley was no longer allowed to ride the regular bus which removed all doubt that I was probably NOT going to be nominated for Mother of the Year.

And now here I stand, talking with Crystal who couldn’t be any nicer if she tried, and I’m probably going to have to sit him down later today and remind him of how he was kicked off of the bus a couple of years ago and that if he wants to continue to ride Crystal's bus he’d better get his act together or heads are gonna roll.

Brad steps out onto the porch and yells to me. I know what he wants. He wants me to come back to the house because Charley won’t come out to the bus if he thinks I’m telling on him to Crystal.

I know Brad wouldn’t be calling to me unless the turkey bird is ready to get on the bus, so I go back to the house.

I can tell he’s been in trouble with his Dad because he steps out onto the porch and throws his arms around me. “I love you Mom,” he says with a weepy expression on his face.

“I love you too son, but you are in trouble,” I say.

“I love you Dad,” he says.

“I love you too son, here, take your medicine,” Brad says and hands him a cup with some liquid medicine that Charley takes every morning. He walks right past the cup and heads down the stairs, crosses the lawn and steps up onto the bus.

Well, here I go again, back out to the bus, and I hand him the cup and he drinks it.

I tell him I’m disappointed that he’s put his Dad and me through so much stress and I stand there waiting for an apology that I am not about to get, and finally I turn around and go back to the house.

Brad and I stand on the porch watching the lights from the bus disappear out of sight and I consider going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head. In fact, that's exactly what I'm going to do. Later when he gets home from school and wants his snack, I'm going to hide under the covers and refuse to come out. That'll fix him.

Then he will ask if I'm sick, and I will tell him "Yes, I'm sick, thank you very much," sick of him not getting out of bed in the morning and that he's worn me to a frazzle and sorry about that but I just don't have the energy to fix him his chicken. That ought to do it.

So I come back into the house to thaw out and sit down at the computer to write about my son behind his back, and I’m off to a good start and my fingers are just flying on the keyboard and I’m using a few choice words which I will just have to delete before I put it out onto the blog, when the phone rings. It’s Crystal on the other end saying that Charley wants to apologize for his behavior. I’ll just bet he does.

“Hello,” I say into the phone.

“Mommy, I warry,” (Sorry) he says.

“What did you do wrong?” I say, trying to get him to understand what he had done.

“Oh no, this again,” he says.

“Son, that’s not a funny joke,” I say.

“Warry.”

“You gonna get up and out of the bed tomorrow like you are supposed to?”

“Yea.”

“And no more of this refusing to be ready for the bus on time?”

“Yea.”

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he says. I can tell from his tone of voice that he means it. Until the next time, of course.

“Okay son, you have a good day and remember, you promised.”

“I warry, Mom, I love you.”

“I love you too, son.”

“Tell Dad I warry.” He says.

“Here tell him yourself,” I say and hand the phone to Brad who tells him that he accepts Charley’s apology and then tells him that he loves him very much.

Yep, it’s Monday.

Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting

Raising a special needs child is not for wimps.

We’re fighting today. Don’t ask me why, it just started off on the wrong foot.

First I heard him in the kitchen trying to talk Brad out of the milk.

Brad said, “No, you can’t have all of the milk. You can have some of it.”

He said, “Come on Daddy Brad.”

“I said you can have some of it,” Brad said.

“I want that milk!”

“You can’t have all of it.”

Then I heard him heading back into his room grumbling, “Hmmpffff! Sermon Man!”

So I turned over and went back to sleep. You think I was getting into the middle of that? Not on your life.

I guess it was around 9:00 when Brad left for church. He said, “Charley, I’ve got to go to church.”

Charley said, “Not me.”

Of course I had to go and stick my big nose in. “Oh yes you are,” I said.

“No not.”

So it comes time to get ready for church. I’ve got his pants, his shirt, his underwear or “wonderwear” as Charley calls it, and his socks all laid out for him on the bathroom sink, and of course, 2 towels. Charley likes 2 towels and he doesn’t even care if they are wet as long as he has two.

I say, “How’s about shaving the other side of that beard for church son?”

And he says, “No thank you.”

So I say, “It’s about time for your shower.”

“Or what?” he says.

“It’s not wise to have a smart mouth, now get out of the bed.”

“No.” He pulls the covers over his head.

So I reach under the blanket and tickle his toes.

“Get away!”

I say, “Son, you coming out from under there?”

“Hush!”

“I’m not going to hush until you get up and take your shower.”

I stand there a few more minutes. Someone is not budging.

So I say, “Hmm, there seems to be a rock there in the middle of the bed, a big lump and look, it’s underneath a Superman blanket!”

No response.

I go and get his batter operated Superman toy and turn it on. It’s a most annoying toy that just keeps saying “Look, up in the sky! It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s SUPERMAN!” Now why don’t they make a toy with a cape that yells “It’s SUPERMOM?”

I can personally say that this particular Superman toy has caused me some grief. He had left that toy in the car and I guess I hit a bump in the road or something and it must have some sort of short in it because I’m driving down the road when all of a sudden I hear this voice out of nowhere saying, “Look! Up in the sky!” You get the picture. But the problem was, I was the only one in the car, and the toy was in the back seat, and I couldn’t reach it. It just kept saying the same thing over and over again. Come to think of it maybe I do have something in common with that Superman toy.


I tried to turn the toy off when I got home but couldn’t get it to stop. Finally out of sheer frustration I threw it into the bushes. “There! take that!” I said, and went into the house. The problem was, I forgot about it. I don’t know how long it had been in the bushes, but it had settled in pretty deep and I wasn’t about to reach in and get it out, not with all the wasps buzzing around, so I just left it in the bushes. Well, one morning on our way out to the car the toy went off and Charley heard it and begged me to get it out. As in put my hands into the bushes with the morning cobwebs and spiders? No way.

“Pleeeeeeeze mom.”

This of course meant that we would listen to that stupid toy all the way to the doctor’s office in the car, but well, I caved in and got a stick and poked at it until it fell out onto the ground.

Now the toy lives in his room again. It doesn’t go off all the time but when it does, it seems to be when I’m in the house alone. I hate that toy. Except this morning I’m hoping the toy will be on my side. Perhaps it can irritate my son enough to get him out of bed.

I put the Superman toy next to him on the bed and it’s yelling the superman thing, and that should do the trick, but nothing. Nada. No movement whatsoever. Alright, it’s time to play dirty.

But what will I do? I know, I’ll get that backscratcher out of my room. No, he doesn’t have an itchy back, it’s just that there’s a little red string on the end of it. So I reach over and start to tickle his ear with the string.

He swats at the string but doesn’t open his eyes. “Mom, there’s a bug in here,” he yells as if I’m down the hall.

I don’t say anything, I just stand there real quiet and then reach over with the string and tickle his nose.

Another swat.

“MOOOOOOOM, I said there’s a bug in here!”

Sooner or later he’s going to open his eyes. I tickle his ear one more time and this time he opens one eye and sits up. “I MAD!”

“Well yes indeed, now out of the bed buster.”

“No.”

“You’re gonna be sorry if you don’t hurry up.”

“I not going.”

“Okay fine, but you aren’t going to see Cameron unless you hurry up.”

Charley likes to sit with Cam and Beth during church.

“And you’re not getting a surprise today if you don’t get yourself to church.”

That should do the trick.

I go back into my room to get ready.

The next thing I know, he’s sound asleep, snoring.

It’s my fault really, I’m in charge of his pills on Sunday mornings and I forgot to give him his 9:30 dose. What this means is that his behavior won’t be very nice when it comes time for church, so I decide to leave him alone thinking he’ll sleep through church, and I sneak out the door closing it quietly behind me but first I pick up the cat and put her in the laundry room so she won’t sneak out when he forgets to shut the door behind him, if and when he decides to get his rear end out of bed.

I slip in to the pew and look at Brad who is giving me his famous “You’re late” look.

Ronald is in rare form this morning. He’s leading the singing and stops at one point to ask if anyone has any song suggestions. A tiny child’s voice comes from the back of the church. It says, “No.” Everyone is laughing.

I look over at Dianne and she’s pointing to the back of the church. There underneath the table in the foyer is my son. Hiding. He does that sometimes.

I go back and fuss at him for wearing his muscle shirt because he knows that’s not allowed, but at least he’s at church, and I’d rather have him here than at home, so I tell him to come with me and we sit down in the pew, and I'm finally able to give him his pills.

He fusses because I don’t have any water. I say, “Just chew them.”

“My teef Mom,” he says, pointing to his teeth, indicating that he can’t chew his pills anymore, but since I don’t have a bottle of water in my purse I tell him he can either swallow them or wait until he gets home, and since he’s a show-off and wants everyone to know how grown up he is, he pops them into his mouth, and who’d’ve thunk it, he’s chewing them and the next thing I know, he’s scooting past me to go across the aisle and sit with Cam and Beth where he proceeds to blow his nose on a Kleenex and then throw it at Brittany. I know, that’s about the most disgusting thing you’ve ever heard, right? Me too.

Well this just grosses everyone out, and he looks over at me for my reaction, and then moves his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx.

I mouth the words to him, “You’re in big trouble mister.”

He sticks his tongue out at me but not boldly, because there’s a technique to sticking out your tongue at your mom so that only you and she know you’ve stuck your tongue out.

Brad starts the sermon.

Charley gets up and comes across the aisle right in the middle of the sermon and says, “Mom, you got me a prize?”

Are you even kidding me?

“Sit down,” I say.

He sits down.

A few minutes pass by and I’m not happy with something Brad has said about me in his sermon, so I’m fidgeting, and here we go again, Charley is beside me talking into my ear.

“Mom, you mad at me?”

“I’m not happy, now sit down.”

“No not.”

“Either you sit down right now or I’m going to move over and sit with you and Cam and Beth.”

He sits down.

Lets see now. Am I mad? He hasn’t taken his shower. He came to church in his grey muscle man shirt which he knows is forbidden. He’s gotten up every 3 minutes to talk to me during his Dad’s sermon. He’s launched a used Kleenex in Brittany’s direction. You think I’m mad? You tell me.

Finally, Brad is in front of the church giving the Benediction and Charley’s standing right beside him glancing over at me. They start to walk down the aisle and Charley comes over to me and puts his arms around me and gives me a big squeeze.

“I did good in church Mom!”

I glared at him. “You are in so much trouble,” I say.

He sort of gives a little kick in the air and then squats down and puts his hands up in sort of a Kung Fu type of motion.

“Are we Kung Fu fighting?” I say, and I kick my foot in the air and then squat just like him and put my hands up in the martial arts position. It occurs to me that
he must have been watching the Karate Kid movie again.

“Come along grasshopper,” I say and we head off down the driveway towards the manse.

Once inside the house he disappears into his room for a while; he is too smart to ask me for a surprise. He’s bigger than me but I could flatten him like a bug if I wanted to and he knows it, but I usually use my tongue as my weapon and it can be razor sharp when I want it to, and he’s not about to get a tongue lashing, so he’s going to let the dust settle I guess before he ventures out to test the waters.

He has 2 TVs that are both the same size. I don’t remember when or where he got them or even the circumstances. I only know that he has two of them and can never settle on which one he wants to watch, so throughout the day he switches them back and forth about every half hour. It makes me exhausted just watching him. When he gets tired of one he brings it down the hall, puts it on the floor of the work room, switches the clickers, and picks up the other one and takes it to his room. Charley has well developed muscles and hasn’t spent a day in the gym but that’s because we don’t have a gym nearby. I’d take him if we did, but oh well; I guess if you don’t have a gym nearby you can always haul TV’s back and forth down the hall.

Each time he has switched his TVs today he has peeked into the den to see what the climate is like. Is it chilly in here? Is it fair to partly cloudy? Is it fixing to rain all over his parade?

I glare at him. He stands in the hallway and glares right back with his arms folded.

Neither one of us speaks.

When he’s had enough of staring he comes into the den.

“I get my prize now?”

“Do you think you deserve a surprise after the way you acted at church?”

“Yes.”

“Then you would be wrong,” I say. “Did you take your shower?”

“Yes.”

“Liar, pants on fire!”

He laughs.

“Were you supposed to wear your muscle shirt to church?”

“Yes.”

“Give it up son, you’re busted.”

“Warry Mom.”

“Did you throw a Kleenex at Brittany?”

“I play game.”

“It wasn’t funny, son.”

“Did you stick your tongue out at me?”

“No.”

“Yes you did, I saw you.”

“I play game.”

“So you think you deserve a surprise?”

“Yes.”

I say, “No.”

He says, “Don’t tell me no, you TV back at Marcy house.”

He’s talking about the television I recently brought home from Marcy’s house in Louisville, and is threatening to take the TV back to her house, not that he has a means of transportation but that doesn’t phase him in the least.

So he stands there. Waiting. Brad walks by the den and looks in. “What’s he doing?” he asks.

“I think he’s waiting for a surprise,” I say, “But it’s going to be a long wait because in his words, he’s not getting “NUTHIN’!”

A few minutes later I hear the shower. He emerges completely clean, having changed his clothes and he’s twirling his dirty underwear on the end of his foot and flinging it across the hallway. It reminds me of when he was a toddler. We were in the mall in New Orleans and he took his diapers off and started running. Everyone was pointing and laughing and at one point he picked up the diapers and twirled them around and they sailed through the air and landed in a man’s lap. Nothing much has changed since then.

“TADAHHH!” He says, and jumps into the middle of the room.

“Better,” I say, and give him a hug so I can get close enough to him to tell if he’s really been in the shower or if he just stood outside the bathtub while the water ran and then put on clean clothes. His skin is still damp; that’s a good sign. It appears that the water actually landed on the body.

“I clean Mom.”

“We’re all relieved, son.”

“Now I get that prize?”

“Sorry, it doesn’t work that way son.”

“Karate chop!” he says, assuming the Karate kid position again. I’m not sure, but he just might render me helpless.

“Go ahead, chop away,” I say, “I’ve already lost my mind, I may as well lose my head too.”

“Comeone, Sherry! Gimme dat prize!”

“No.”

“Mommyhead!”

“You’re a sight,” I say.

“You a psych,” he says. As in psycho?

I turn my attention to the computer and start writing.

“Sherry honey,” he says.

“Stop trying to sweet talk me,” I say.

“Mommy darling.’”

“It’s not working,” I say.

“Mommy honey,” he says.

“Look at you, begging me for a surprise when you know you’re not going to get one.”

“Why?”

“Because your behavior in church was not acceptable and you know it, that’s why.”

“I good shower mom,”

“Yes, but you were supposed to take your shower before church, not after.”

He’s quiet now, thinking this over, I supposed.

“You me my butter,” he says. (Meaning “You melt my butter.”)

“Ignoring you,” I say.

“Freak!”

Uh oh, now the insults are gonna hurl.

“Nurse!” (That’s the kiss of death in Charley verbiage.)

“Bad teef homan!” (I think he just called me a bad teeth woman – that’s the first time I’ve heard that one).

“Take that back!” I say.

“Mommy…I warry.”

“Apology accepted.”

He goes and gets the basket of dried flowers that’s sitting on the mantle.

“Here Mom, for you.”

“Thanks son, and they smell so good too!”

“Now you got me a prize?”

“No."

“Well boo on you.” He says.

“Well Kung foohey on you!” I say.

He turns and blows me a kiss and then gives another Kung Fu kick in the air.

"Right back atcha," I say.

"Hmmmmffffpppfff!" He disappears into his room. "Hummmpppfff!"

Brad walks by the den again. “He’s in rare form today, huh?”

Yep, the kid is a real kick.