I know a place where all civility is thrown out the window. I know a place where a person can lose his life if he isn’t careful. I know a place where one can find some serious bad manners and road rage in action.

The school parking lot.

I’ve got to tell you, if you want to say that you have finally seen it all, you really need to experience the insanity that are the 15 minutes of dropping off and picking up of elementary school children from the parking lots of such schools. Just a few examples I’ve witnessed over the years…

Honking, gesturing and yelling “COME ON!” at a car who has stopped to wait for two third graders to use the crosswalk.

Parking in the handicapped space because it’s the one closest to the front door and therefore, the shortest distance to walk with a fourth grader’s science project.

Squealing of tires to prove that YOU are the one most in a hurry here, that’s why you had to go around the bus, even though its lights were flashing and the stop sign was activated.

And those are just a few! There are so many more I could mention! So could the principal–he just recently sent home his annual memo of “Parking Lot Helpful Hints” which really is an open plea for everyone to act like adults and follow basic rules of traffic courtesy and safety.

I am not trying to sound self righteous here. As an impatient person myself and also someone who often is running late, I can relate to the feelings of helplessness and urgency that the school parking lot can bring out. And my sons’ school? Has almost 700 students and quite possibly THE shortest/smallest space allotted for the drop off/pick up ritual. It has forced many of us to get pretty creative about how we are going to extract our children from the building in a safe manner yet still have them home before dark, or get them to school by the bell’s ring without having them flattened by someone who needed to be somewhere, like 5 minutes ago. It’s tough to do. 700 kids. One driveway.

Actually, recently, I finally got smart and just skipped the whole thing altogether. No, I didn’t sign my kids up for the overnight plan at the school, I just quit picking them up from the lot. I parked my car on one of the (very) nearby side streets and waited for the two of them to walk down the hill, cross the street with the crossing guard and then find my car amongst several other silver minivans (obviously, I’m not the only mom who’s figured out how to beat the system).

This was going very well until Ryan had the nerve to break his foot last weekend, meaning that I can’t really expect him to hobble all the way from his classroom to my off campus stakeout.

So for the next 3 weeks, I’ll be navigating the war zone once again. Back in the trenches.

Wish me luck. And kindly get outta my way!

Sometimes I get writer’s block. Sometimes I have an idea but can’t make anything come of it. Sometimes a post falls into my lap like a ton of bricks, and even if those bricks leave some lingering annoying pain, they give me something to write about.

Such was yesterday.

Long story short, I found myself on the wrong side of the law. While out doing errands, I looked in my rear view mirror to see some colorful lighting action behind me…I was getting pulled over.

 I’m 37 years old, I’ve been driving for over 20 years now, and let me just boldly admit that I am no stranger to traffic citations.  I’ve seen those flashing lights in my rear view mirror WAY too many times than I care to count. What can I say? I like to get to where I’m going, like now. And most, like oh maybe 99.7% of those times, have ended up with something that required a court date and/or a large fine. There’s an episode of Friends where Rachel (Jennifer Aniston) sweet talks her way out of her very guilty speeding self and just trust me, that has very VERY rarely happened to me. Not that I haven’t tried.

No, let’s just say that I know the drill. Hand over license, wait (im)patiently for the officer to confirm that my license plate hasn’t been reported stolen, there aren’t any warrants out for my arrest, I’m not currently (nor have I ever been) featured on America’s Most Wanted, and that I’m allowed to be in this country.

So here I am yesterday, pulled over on some neighborhood side street for like the zillionth time in my life, waiting solemnly, watching the people who live in the neighborhood come to their doors because whoa man, like there’s a cop out here!!

Here I sit. And I’m so guilty. I’m probably the guiltiest I’ve ever been. I know this and so does Officer Friendly. Yet something’s different than all those times in high school when I was speeding around with my mates. He’s actually working with me. He wants this to end well for me. But this time it’s not about trying to be charming, or pulling some teenaged attitude or an offer of gum from my giggling friends in the backseat (a sad reality of mine). Nope. All I have to offer is just a plethora of mortified apologies (for having 2 month old expired tags), a waving of a soccer camp registration form that needed to be turned in today and a frantic (but unsuccessful) search to turn up a current insurance card.

I could not have looked more like an idiot and definitely wasn’t going to win a Responsible Motorist Contest…yet Officer Friendly didn’t cite me for all the things he could have. Yes, I did get a ticket for not being able to show proof of insurance, but OF was overwhelmingly informative about how that would be completely voided out as soon as I showed up to the courthouse to show them my current card (which, of course, magically turned up as soon as he drove away).

This post obviously isn’t about parenting and my kids didn’t even turn up once in it, did they? And of course, I’m speculating and probably being oversensitive and maybe exaggerating a little but I have this image of myself through the officer’s eyes and it’s just so pathetic…

Harried, wild eyed, disorganized, minivan driving middle aged soccer mom. Poor thing.

Yeah, but in real life I’m a Super Hero. Ha ha.

It’s unbelievable the broad range of emotions that autism brings out of me, sometimes all in one day.

For instance, I laugh at autism when Adam runs into the room, yells “OH NO, THE GERMANS!” and then runs out with no further explanation. I mean, what else can you do but laugh at that? Also amusing? When he proclaims that he is “Dr. House” and threatens to stitch up anyone who gets in his way or denies him his wants/needs.

Autism makes me frustrated when I have an almost five year old child who is still not potty trained and I don’t know for the life of me how to explain to Adam what it is I want him to do, yet I know that the excuse clock has run out and the skill must get mastered.

Frustrated?! Autism makes me wanna pull my hair out some days. Trust me, one of the greatest parenting skills we possess is the knowledge and ability to use threats, empty as they may be quite often. When that ability is taken from us or rendered useless, it’s a whole different world war, comrades.

Autism makes me cry when I see other children the same age as Adam, children I’ve known as long as I’ve known Adam, going off to normal preschool for the first time, playing soccer for the first time, living a much different life than Adam. As much as one gets used to it, this is one of the hardest things about being the parent of a special needs child.

Autism amazes me, truly amazes me and makes me cry for a very different reason when I walk into Adam’s room one day and see that he has written his name–all by himself, in better handwriting than his 2nd grade brother can muster–and that’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen him even pick up a writing utensil. Seriously, the day he did that, I just sat in his room and let tears roll down my face, and those who know me know how out of character that is for me. Oh Adam, what else can you do that you’re waiting to show me?

Autism makes me hopeful when Adam shows me that he is also learning to read. What a fantastic communication tool reading and writing will be to someone whose greatest, and truth be told, only barrier to the world is inability to communicate.

Autism exhausts me when some days, I just don’t know what to do. I’ve devoted much of the last 3 1/2 years to troubleshooting where Adam is concerned, yet sometimes that autistic volcano is very unpredictable. It erupts when you least expect it and are the least prepared for it. And when it erupts, there is no stopping it, you just have to hope the meltdown will end quickly.

On the other hand, autism gives me a sense of peace sometimes. Yes, it really does! Sometimes I’ll just be watching Adam play and I realize that in his world, he isn’t guided by prejudices, preconceived notions, stereotypes, insecurities, etc. He truly is an innocent being. I know he’s only four and a half, but by now, my older two had already experienced some of the things which eventually cause all of us to be a bit jaded. Sometimes, he’s the most peaceful one in the house. No worries, mon.

And at the end of a day, when Adam comes to me with an armful of stuffed animals and asks to “sit with Mom-Mom”, autism makes me happy.

Autism is so complex. No one really knows what’s going on in those differently wired minds and when you are the parent of a special needs child, it can bring out the best and the worst in you.

It can bring out more than you ever knew was there to begin with.

I was putting in a load of the boys’ laundry last Saturday and couldn’t find the black soccer socks that Ryan had worn to practice in the morning. I knew he didn’t have them on his feet anymore because the last I’d seen of him, he’d been wearing flip flops. I really wanted to get those socks into this load of laundry, as they are the easiest of his soccer socks to get on and off and also because socks lying around in secret hiding places to be found weeks later is a large obsessive compulsive pet peeve of mine.

“Ryan?”

No response.

“RYAN!”

Sound of TV coming from den.

“RYAN!!!!”

“WHAT?!”

“Where are your socks?”

“Why do I have to wear socks?”

“No, you don’t have to wear them, I’m just looking for them.”

“Oh. I keep my socks in my drawer.”

Sigh.

“No Ryan. The socks you wore to soccer practice this morning. The black ones. Where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

SIGH.

“Ryan, think. What did you do with your socks after you got home from practice?”

No response.

“RYAN! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH YOUR SOCKS AFTER YOU GOT HOME FROM PRACTICE?”

“I took them off,” is the final response from Professor Obvious as he heads out the door to play.

Never mind.

The kid wasn’t completely unhelpful, however. I was able to locate the sweat drenched items a few minutes later. In the drawer, right where he said they were.

Lovely.

Well, I heard it.

It took 9 years and just shy of a month, but it happened.

I got told by an offspring that I basically suck. That I’m no fun. That life is worse for him than it is for any other kid in the entire universe. That I

“Never let me do anything fun, EVER!” complete with the slamming of a bedroom door.

And you know what? It hurt.

I don’t mean it hurt my feelings. Logan wanted it to hurt my feelings, but he lost that battle. It didn’t make me sad or guilty or frightened that he was someday going to look back on his life and tell his wife or his frat brothers or his coworkers  that his childhood was especially unfair and cold hearted.

No, that wasn’t the hurt that I felt.

More it was that, well, I had this burning pain in my chest that made me consider standing up and shouting “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!? WHAT DO YOU THINK I DO WITH 18 OF THE 24 HOURS THAT MAKE UP AND HAVE MADE UP EACH AND EVERY DAY OF THE PAST 9 YEARS AND 1 MONTH! DO YOU THINK THAT I ENJOY EATING AT MCDONALDS WHEN INSTEAD I COULD HAVE CHOSEN PANERA BREAD?! DO YOU THINK THAT IT WAS MY IDEA TO GO ON THE ROCK AND ROLL ROLLER COASTER AT HOLLYWOOD STUDIOS AFTER STANDING IN LINE FOR ALMOST 2 HOURS! OH, AND SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU GO TO THE POOL SO MANY TIMES THIS SUMMER! I KNOW THAT GOING DOWN WATERSLIDES AND JUMPING OFF THE HIGH DIVE WAS PROBABLY REALLY ROUGH…OH AND ONE MORE THING, IT’S SUPER FUN TO HAUL MY REAR UP AND DOWN THE FREEWAY 30 MINUTES EACH WAY SO YOU CAN ENJOY YOUR $275 ENRICHMENT CAMP!”

I didn’t shout that, though. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I simply asked him to elaborate on why he felt that he had life so bad, why everyone else was livin’ the dream, yet he could only imagine it, why he had the audacity to tell his mother that I never let him “do anything fun, ever”. And after listening, I said something to the effect of “well, sorry, but it is what it is.”

To tell you all the “anything funs” that I’ve done for him and his two younger brothers over the past 9 years would make this post so long, it would most likely cause my computer to crash.

So I won’t elaborate. But Logan could. The offense?

I wouldn’t let him go on a late night (almost 10), spur of the moment run with some neighbors to Sonic for shakes.

I’m not going to go into detail about why my husband and I vetoed the idea. Basically, it just wasn’t going to happen. No. Forget it. Sorry, dude.

And I was prepared for some fallout, but not yet quite ready to hear those words, words that it seemed just yesterday I was saying to my own parents.

What else hurt?

The fact that I saw those words for what they were: meaningless crap from a ‘tween. Which meant that soon I’d enter that world where I could do nothing right, where I’m the bad guy (girl), where basically, Logan’s going to think he’s getting screwed right and left by his parents, the very ones who live and breathe to make his life fun, easy and, you know, good.

So I guess all I can hope for is that he’ll always deep down know that I’m on his side and that while I could scream the above bold- faced paragraph at him for emphasis, I won’t because… Logan, as your mom, I will go to bed each and every night hoping and praying that you had a great day and you’ll just have to trust me to know when to reign in the fun, even if it’s just for the night.

Right? What else can you do but just know you’re doing the best you believe is right.

Even if the ones who benefit don’t agree.