Blah blah blah teenage daughter drama blah blah blah work are fucking arsehole motherfuckers blah blah blah Achilles hurting like a bastard blah blah blah not enough money blah blah blah car is broken blah blah blah Boo broke his arm.

Boo broke his arm.

5 hours in casualty and my boy has his arm in a cast from shoulder to wrist.

He is drugged to the eyeballs and crying in pain and I cannot do a thing to help him.

He ran into a wall at school FACE FIRST and is sporting a black eye, bruised and battered check and the aforementioned cast.

Fuck.

He thinks he can take the cast off tomorrow.  He has no concept of 6-8 weeks.

Right now he is passed out in the middle of my bed and all I want to do is wrap him in my arms and make it all better.

Fuck this shit.

{sorry about the last post freaking you all out, that was posted BEFORE the work shit and my boy shattering his arm.  So you can imagine how fucking stressed outta my motherfucking mind I am NOW.

And I ate all the cookie dough.  It didn’t help but it sure was delicious}

That is all I can hear.

A pound pound pounding in my ears.

I can feel my heart beat.

I sit, perfectly still and try and see if I can see my heart pounding out of my chest.

And I am surprised to find that I cannot.

I feel it in my head.  My eyes.  My legs.  Rushing through my body.

All with the steady beat from my heart.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I feel hot.

Dizzy.

A little nauseous.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

The sound is getting louder.  More earnest.

My mouth is dry.

I want to rip off all my clothes and run screaming in the street.

Or curl up in the corner with a blanket over my head.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I try and blot out the thoughts in my head.  Thoughts that make me catch my breath.  Thoughts that normally would just be normal shit different day but today make my blood race through my body so fast I fear I may topple over.

I sit here paralysed by something.  Apathy?  Laziness?

Fear?

The latter seems more descriptive of my symptoms but not of the actual situation.

I have cookie dough in the freezer.  Once I make it to the kitchen my body will decide if it is consumed cooked or not.

Friday last week Boo was home sick, we whiled away the day watching whatever came on Channel 10 because OF COURSE that was the day that the remote would lose its shit and decide to not work and because MPS being a man with an electronics obsession had hooked the tv up through four hundred different devices rendering me incapable of changing channels lest I rip a hole in the time space continium.

Or something.

I was stuck on the lounge with my boy laying in my lap while we suffered through Dr Phil and then Oprah.

Jamie Oliver was on.

Boo found him fascinating.  I guess it is because he is so animated.  I dunno.  Whatever.

So when Jamie’s show ‘Food Revolution‘ came on that evening we watched it together.

They were showing a family that was basically living on tan coloured things.  Fried tan coloured things.

Kinda like Boo.

But at least Boo eats fruit.  Any type of fruit.  As in I have to HIDE the freaking fruit if I have any hope of getting any.  As in OMG half of our food budget goes on fruit.

But I digress.

Jamie took this family to the doctor for a checkup.  When it was the sons turn, the doctor pointed to the coloured mark around the kids neck and said it was a precursor/indicator of diabetes.

I stared at the screen slack jawed.

I don’t think I took a breath the whole time they were waiting the test results.

Boo has that mark.

Around his neck.

Like a tan line.  Like a ring of dirt.

Every morning as I am drying him after his shower I rub and rub and rub and admonish Boo for getting dirt around his neck AGAIN.

But maybe it is not just dirt.

Maybe.

I have a lot of work ahead of me, preparing Boo for the possibility of a finger prick test, a blood test or any of the other tests that could be run once I get him to the doctors.

But right now we are starting on exercise.

Every day we are walking home from school.

You know, since the car incident on Monday gave me no other choice.

Coincidence?

Boo has been sleeping.

So OF COURSE that means that I haven’t.

I don’t know why, I just toss and turn and flip the pillow and throw off the covers and then wrap myself in a cocoon of deliciousness and then toss a little more.

And stare at the clock.

My body is pleading with my brain and my brain is all ‘hellz to the no’.

And it sucks.  A LOT.

But today Boo’s case manager sent me a list of hotels that they have on file that they will PAY FOR US TO STAY AT.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

So while I google the shit outta these places I will send you over to Craftastrophe.

Because today I have a very special lady to share with you.

And by special I mean fuck me dead this chick is fucking INSANE.

Ladies:  wanna feel better about yourself?  I urge you to click.

Men: want your special lady to look like a supermodel?  I urge you to click.

BUT I will warn you, whilst technically she is not naked, the horror that you will behold is NOT SAFE FOR WORK.  And when I say NSFW I mean ‘not safe for viewing at work even if you are scrolling in your RSS feed.’  Idiot.

Apparently this has something to do with unicorns. NSFW or small children or people with pacemakers or anyone at all really.

After a restless nights sleep – the kind where you get into bed, realise that you have to be up mere hours later and then spend the rest of the night tossing and turning screaming at your brain to go to fucking sleep already because you have to be up in 5 hours/3 hours/2 hours/45 minutes – I dragged myself out of bed to drive MPS to the bus stop.

Which was really my own fault because he came in to say he would walk and in my sleep deprived state I can be rather kind and nurturing and was all ‘are you sure?’ and then he was all ‘OK you can drive me’

Fucking stupid nurturing half asleep Kelley.

Once I returned it was time to get the blood sucking parasites the kids out of bed.

Running around doing the usual shizzle of begging them to get out of bed, dragging a five foot seven zombie encased in a white doona cocoon into the shower, convincing a now deep blue haired Emo that she is IN FACT OK to go to school and going through 3 pairs of pantyhose I finally made it to work.

Where there was a new kind of hell awaiting me.  Piles of shit that mysteriously appeared over the weekend that should have been dealt with in JUNE.

Sighing a little louder than was warranted, ensuring that the whole office was aware of the situation, I got stuck into it while I ordered my cell mate co-worker to get under the desk and retrieve the paper that had fallen down there (They’re called boobs, Ed) when I hear:

I am sitting

In the morning

At the diner

On the corner

I am waiting

At the counter

For the man

To pour the coffee

Which is my ringtone and OMG that song of awesome is totally gunna be ruined cause you know if your mobile phone rings while you are at work it only means one of two things.

You have won the lottery or a kid is sick.

And Suzanne sounded kinda sadder than usual so I KNEW it would be the latter.

So I went inside and put my sad pants on and moped around the house procrastinating about making THAT phone call to school that was basically ‘batten down the hatches biatches, Boo is gunna have to walk home from school and it AIN’T GUNNA BE PRETTY!’

Because OBVIOUSLY a change in the routine that has been ingrained for 6 YEARS is going to elicit a response of a magnitude 4 billion on the Boo Scale of Pissedoffedness.

And it did.  Apparently he had a meltdown for 45 minutes.  While I was hobbling my way to the school, Achilles bitching the whole damn way about how I was only supposed to be walking short distances and I hadn’t even done THAT and bitch you are gunna pay for this… blah blah blah… motherfucker.

By the time I got to school he had calmed down somewhat, but not after getting a green note for bad behaviour.

*sigh*

While walking home and being HAPPY! and OMG ISN’T THIS FUN! and LOOK AT THAT TREE ISN’T IT JUST SO INTERESTING! I remembered a conversation last night with MPS about how I just don’t have time to exercise.

How I would love to be able to just go for a walk.

How my thighs are starting to rub together…

The moral of this story is don’t bitch about not having time to do something because the universe is listening and will FUCK YOU UP!

First, my lovelies, I must backtrack and give a little background information.

Boo has many diagnosis’s.  Autism, as you are already aware and Hyperlexia (which you would KNOW if you were a proper little stalker reading my about page) being the most significant.

Autism with a CARS score of 42.  Which is kinda bad.  The ‘take him home and love him’ kinda score.

Hyperlexia is a tricky one.  In Boo’s case it meant that he could read before he could speak.  Knew the alphabet backwards and forwards by 8 months of age.  By two and a half we were communicating via the written word.

Entitled 'Mutual Admiration Society'

(one day I will take pictures of all the artwork that Boo had up at the World Autism Conference, including the official posters he designed AT THREE)

And he could spell ANY word.  Unfortunately his comprehension was zero.

Intensive one on one (read JUST ME AND HIM OMG I NEARLY LOST MY DAMN MIND) therapy, with occasional speech and OT and we got to the day where he would be attending mainstream kindergarten.

Enter stupid fucking moron psychologist that should never have been allowed to practice.  But I trusted her because she had a child with Autism and I was young and idealistic.

She gave him an IQ test – mandatory for applying for specialist funding – over TWO DAYS.

She chased his naked arse around the house until he complied.

She gave him sticker rewards for answering the questions.

LETTER STICKERS SO HE COULD SPELL HIS FAVOURITE WORDS (at that stage it was Nickelodeon).  Like FEEDING THE MOTHERFUCKING STIM SO HE WOULD COMPLY!

At that stage I had no clue that this was totally unethical and that he should have been given a score of ‘untestable’ thus enabling us to get the supports he so desperately needed.

A few weeks later – cause she forgot cause she is a fucking fruit loop – the score came back.

144.

A CARS score of 42 putting him in the severely Autistic range and a Mensa eligible IQ.

And he was THREE.

The following year he started kindergarten, supported by an aide only because of his speech delay and because he was wearing nappies.

We decided on a second year of kindergarten, academically he was streets ahead of his peers but still incontinent and socially functioning around 18 months.  As his rather abrasive teacher said IN AIR QUOTES he ‘is not normal’

*sigh*

Define ‘normal’ fucknuckle…

Then the nightmare of applying for school funding.  By now I had cottoned on to the ’system’ and was able to write a horrific tale of his inadequacies without falling apart rocking in the corner.

We got Level 4.  Based on him wearing nappies and his speech delay.

NOT because he had to be watched every second lest he eat the furniture, strip naked, could not get basic needs met, could not sit independently without toppling over and the fact that his preference if left alone would be to flap his arms and grunt.

Fast forward to now where the school have been FANTASTIC and ensure that he has an adult with him at all times.  Teachers volunteering their own time to shadow him in the yard, an aide with him in the classroom constantly despite the fact his funding is just for speech therapy and toileting, wonderful kids helping him because they think he is funny and their friend.

And now high school looms on the horizon.  He is toilet trained.  He is getting his needs met and doing AWESOMELY academically.  He will lose his funding.

The official line is his IQ is too high for a specialist school and to get funding for a mainstream school.  His language deficit is too great (needs to be under ‘two standard deviations’ between expressive and receptive language) to attend the middle ground school.  And yes, he has since had another IQ test, this time 110, WAAAAAAAAAAAY too high for the specialist school whose cut off is 55.

So basically, in a nutshell, those three years I spent 24/7 in intensive one on one therapy that cost thousands of dollars and the proceeds of selling our home to get him where he is today were for naught.

Nothing.

Nada.

Cause now my little man, my amazing wonderful infuriating little man, doesn’t fit in a check box.

Ironically, during those years of therapy his favourite thing was to check off all the activities we did.

Marked with an X.

Today I drove back from a neighbouring town in the rain with the windscreen wipers off.

Because they made a squeaking sound.

And Boo doesn’t like squeaking sounds.

Boo loses his freaking MIND when there is a squeaking sound.

However, I WAS ALONE IN THE CAR and Boo was miles away in a warm classroom.

I was just PRACTISING driving with the windscreen wipers off so I wouldn’t upset Lord Screams At High Decibels when I picked him up.

It is official.  I am his bitch.

{I am in the process of responding to your questions from the previous post but it will take me a little time to CALM THE FUCK DOWN and save you from a 10,000 word rant}

Today I sent off two family members to high school and university.

Yeah whatever, you say, don’t you do that EVERY DAMN DAY?

Technically yes.

NORMALLY, I send MPS off to work in the IT department at a higher education institution and send Too off to high school to mock and practice her eye rolling while taking note of every spelling and grammatical mistake made by her English teacher.

Today though, Too is off to university to play with DNA and bacteria and apparently they are going to let my Damn Emo hell bent on WORLD DOMINATION play with the DNA of bacteria in the hopes of making an antibiotic resistant super bug.

And Boo is off to the local high school.

A high school that most of his friends will attend.

A high school that he will NOT be able to attend.

Because unless I can pull a miracle outta my nicely defrosted arse there is NO HIGH SCHOOL that he can attend.  IQ too high for the specialist schools, the same stupid motherfucking number stopping him from getting support at a mainstream school.  Despite the fact he needs one on one supervision at all times.

But that is a rant for another day.

Boo is really excited about going to high school.

I am freaking the fuck out that he will get it into his head that he WILL be going there and not stuck home with Mum, both of us bitter and angry that his uniqueness doesn’t fit in that checkbox.

And wondering if I can secure a hazmat shower before Too gets home covered in mutant killer bacteria.

So what do I do when I am freaking the fuck out?

I clean.

Boo is gunna be pissed when he comes home to find I have removed FOUR GARBAGE BAGS of shit loved treasures shit from his room.

I might scrub the walls.  But no windows.

This morning I woke to a nice warm house.

Ahhhh, central heating how I love thee.

While I was standing barefoot sipping a cup of steaming latte I glanced outside to see the entire yard covered in ice.  A white blanket of brrrrrrr.

Ahhhhh, central heating.

Into the car with the heating turned up to

I got everyone where they needed to be and off to the land of dickheads and morons aka work.

When I arrived home after a full day of dickheads and morons with Boo in tow I found this under my door.

Now I did get a letter a few months ago saying that they were to replace my gas metre.  LAST MONTH.  But they decided in their infinate wisdom to replace it and TURN OFF MY MOTHERFUCKING GAS MEANING NO CENTRAL HEATING today, on one of the coldest days of the year.

Seems dickheads and morons are not exclusive to my place of employment.

So while I try to chip the ice off my arse and pile on the blankets until MPS gets home because I cannot reach the damn pilot light head on over to Craftastrophe and warm the cockles of your heart and chafe your arse on my latest find.

FUCK ME DEAD there is no milk so no warming latte.  I may have to exercise to keep warm.

It is end of days people.

No doubt you have seen my last post where I told the tale of awesome skillz and dexterity that brought a sad little hacker to his bony little knees and I emerged triumphant after an inconvenience more inconvenienceable than finding a large blind pimple on your arse just minutes before boarding a bus for a 12 hour ride.

But I stand before you here, my arms raised bellowing a HUZZAH probably a little more gleefully than the situation demands, but HUZZAH nonetheless.

I could be a little delirious.

And what, pray tell, could have brought about this deliriousness?

How about a cake that tried to kill me?

Oh yes, my lovelies a cake had me eyeing off the razor sharp knives and I was only stopped by the fact that I didn’t think I would have time to finish it AND clean up the mess before I bled out.  Cause you know if I didn’t clean it up future generations would find that half finished cake of doom and pools of dried blood in an archaeological dig and be all ‘OMG WE FOUND PROOF OF KELLEY TEH AWESOMES EXISTENCE!  And then take my blood and make little Kelley’s which would only be half as awesome OBVIOUSLY I don’t need to point that shit out to you do I?

Yes, I have had some painkiller medication.  Why do you ask?

Let me take you back to when this all started.  On Thursday.

On Friday I was sitting at my desk deleting all my emails (yes FRIDAY, I know I said Thursday but I WILL make a point.  I promise) when I saw a meeting request for Monday 19 July.

Hmmm, I say to myself, what is on 19 July OMG MOTHERFUCKER IT IS MOTY’S BIRTHDAY!  I had totally forgotten.  And then it dawned on my WHY she was so nice to me the day before.  On THURSDAY (see?  I am like an epic story teller).

I was in the bathroom doing bathroomy things when the doorbell rang and then I heard the door open and someone walk down the hall calling me.  I ceased doing bathroomy things and ran out to find MOTY in the kitchen, I went to wash my hands and when I came back she was gone.

And the lazy susan I wanted for cake decorating on the kitchen table.

Shit.  She is OBVIOUSLY pissed.  I am gunna pay big time for that.

Then when she got home she rang and APOLOGISED for leaving so abruptly and did I see the lazy susan she left me for my cake decorating?

Back to Friday.  It slowly dawned on me.  She was NICE.  She dropped off the lazy susan.  She allowed my Dad to watch Ace of Cakes AND Cake Boss and record and burn copies onto DVD for me.

She wanted a birthday cake.

Like a BIG DEAL birthday cake and she would be bringing over various relatives to show them my cake decorating skillz.

So that is how I managed to be hosting MOTY’s birthday party and drop everything to battle with a cake that was clearly EVIL.

The battle started at 9am Saturday morning.  And after fuck ups of biblical proportions, a metric butt load of fondant – 90% of which ended up in the bin – a cake that split down the middle forcing me to completely redesign it AFTER it was iced, I finally had something that kinda sorta had a passing resemblance to cup of tea.  Around 11am Sunday.

But I am VERY happy with the ’sugar cubes’  they were full of teh awesome.

Needless to say MOTY was very happy with it, the relatives gobbled down half of the buttercake with lemon butter and cream cheese frosting and then all promptly went into sugar comas while MOTY snaffled the remaining half of the cake, turned it cut side down and declared it a ‘Half cup of tea’ that she would serve to her friends tomorrow.

And you KNOW she is gunna take credit for it.

I can’t cut a break.

So I deserve a little man candy after battling hacker fuckers, crazy relatives, 10 hours standing in the kitchen making one barely passable cake and random housework shit.

Man Candy who’s voice leaves me shaking at the knees and drooling on my keyboard, talking about Ninja, Pirates while wearing an eye patch and a towel.

youtube clip embedded feedbiatches

I may or may not just spent the last hour watching Mustafa on YouTube.  I am pretty sure I need a towel down.