Happy . . . scrappy

This must be one of the sure sign of aging: things I want to buy are called something else, fraught with confusing extra features or just not manufactured anymore. Anyone seen a Flair™ pen for sale recently?

I am in the market for a scrapbook. Scrapbook, noun: bound book of blank sheets of sturdy paper. I wish to glue down photos, clippings and awards in such an album. "Scrapbooking!" the clerk at the craft supply store said delightedly. "We have several aisles for that."

So now I know: Scrapbook, verb, is quite different from its archaic noun form. Scrapbooking, verb, requires lots of expensive supplies and arcane equipment. There are racks of backing paper, fancy scissors, stickers, glitter, glue and doodads manufactured specifically for members of the scrapbooking sorority, known as "scrappers." All very well, I thought. I'll just buy a album or two and be on my way before Jeff has a meltdown in the dinosaur-themed aisle.

Alas, no. These new-fangled items have clear mylar sleeves. "But there are no pages. Do you just slide stuff in?" The clerk smiled, "You have to buy the paper." Aha. That explains the wall lined with racks of themed papers. "I don't want that. I am looking for . . . ," I was feeling desperate now. "Like your grandmother has, a bound book with construction paper pages, and a gold string holding it together . . . ." She shook her head sadly, "I scrapbook and I have never seen something like that."

The lady at the Hallmark store had about forty years on the craft store clerk, plus white hair. "I am looking for something I call a scrapbook," I offered tentatively. "Who is it for?" Huh? I could see things were not going to end well here either. Scrapbooking is all about the theme. I could see this from the albums of plastic sleeves with Mickey Mouse, wedding bells or sports logos on them. When I rejected all the displayed albums as having the dreaded plastic instead of paper pages, the Hallmark lady snapped, "You will have to make that yourself!"

The young man at Marshall's was much more helpful. "I have just come here in my time machine," I told him. "I am looking for a thing I call 'scrapbook'." "Ooooh, I have seen one," he told me. "It had paper pages with stuff glued on them." Exactly. "We don't have them. Have you tried a craft supply store?"

So I bought two of what Marshall's calls scrapbooks, along with two discounted packs of themed paper. Sure, there are storks with banners reading "It's a boy!" but the reverse side is solid gray. Now if I could just find a few Flair™ pens to write the captions.

Sunday Social at the Old Town School (photo)

Away, again

"Hart ran out of the house today. He made it a few blocks away, but according to our procedures, police had to be summoned. He's safe now," said Hart's case manager when he phoned yesterday. Whew, that's a relief.

"That's the good news." That's the good news! &#%$*#!
Welcome to my world, where news of elopement and police capture are the good news. What possible mayhem can follow as "the bad news?"

"The group home doesn't seem to be working out."
I must have let out a long quiet sigh of relief. I have quietly considered this myself over the past few months. That phone call must have been a mere formality: Hart's behavior has been so unpredictable and difficult that the decision has already been made to move him back to the main campus.

Sigh. This is Hart's theme: Sabotage your own best interests. My theme: keep trying new and less restrictive options for Hart, hope for best, until the inevitable phone call comes.

Hart is NOT going to like being "demoted" back to the main campus. But I also know that the issue is not what he wants but what he needs: a more structured and restrictive setting. It was his success in this environment that enabled him to move to the group home! In hindsight, should I have been more adamant about delaying the move? Hart wanted to move to the group home so much . . .

"You can explain that it was our decision," offered the case manager. "That way, he won't be angry with you." Thanks, anyway. But I prefer the message that even though I am far away I am always Hart's mom, still active in and aware of his plan of treatment. I am, sigh, used to being the bearer of disappointing news.

You Look Just Fine mailbag

Dear YLJF,

Today, while running errands, the grocery store cashier mentioned that I looked "comfortable." Is this a euphemism for looking sloppy or unkempt?

___________________________________ Mortified

Dear Mort,

Of course not! This is the 21st century--comfort is the greatest goal of fashion. Or are you still wearing a girdle and white gloves when not running errands? Perhaps you have not been to church lately either. If shorts and flip-flops are good enough for God, they are good enough for the Piggly-Wiggily. Lighten up.

Just say Maybe

Let's talk about drugs. Not the illegal, illicit, recreational kind . . . the real stuff, the meds a psychiatrist prescribes for people with neurological and mental impairments.The ones Hart and Jeff take.

Let's say you are a parent of a typical child. Perhaps you are thinking, "I would never permit my child to take psychotropic drugs, especially those prescribed off-label." My advice to you: Shut up.

Say you are a parent of a 7- or 8-year-old who is beginning to have difficulties in school. You know your child has always been extremely sensitive and high-spirited, but now school professionals are suggesting a medical workup and possible "pharmacological intervention." My advice: Just do it. You will have to do it sooner or later. Possibly you may be among the many parents who, after great soul-searching, agree to medication and find that it is wonderful. Your child is focused, attentive, and suddenly, a joy to be around. Case closed. You will wish you did it sooner.

However, there are lots of parents like me. My boys' impairments are so significant, so severe, that I have agreed to a medication regimen in hopes of mitigating their difficulties just a bit. If medication can make Hart and Jeff a little bit more available for classroom learning, a wee bit less impulsive, a tiny bit less agitated and anti-social, I figure, it is worth it.

But now, I have entered the next soul-searching phase. On his last visit, Hart appeared to have developed a tic or a tremor. In my head, alarm bells went off right away. We parents conferred: doctors and staff conferred. A period of observation, a battery of tests, careful study of behavior as Hart's medication is adjusted.

This is the yin question to my original yang decision: how much quality-of-life improvement does Hart's medication make? If the meds only make the tiniest difference, are they worthwhile at all?

Heart of Glass II (photo)

Memorial Day JRC Kallah (retreat)
talent show: Blondie's ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

RR&R welcomes new readers

In the past few weeks, a number of old friends, acquaintances, and friends-of-friends have stumbled across this blog and phoned or emailed me to tell me that they have found it enjoyable and entertaining reading. At least, that's what they say to ME.

Parenting two kids with Russian-Adopted-Kid-Syndrome (RASK), or Autism-Lite, as I prefer to call it: what's not to laugh? If you talk about disabilities, perhaps you are expected to be dour and serious. I do that too, generally at IEP meetings with an attorney present because the lawyers charge by the hour.

For the first few years with Jeff and Hart, it was like living with two feral tiger cubs. Hilarious. In recent years, it has been more like having two aliens in the house. I have to constantly explain human customs and mores. Hysterical.

I thought I was pretty funny even before I had kids . . . maybe my source material has just gotten better.