A Housewife's Prayer

Dear Lord,

I thought I'd write because you don’t seem to be answering the candles I lit at church or the holy hour that I spent last Sunday night.  You see, I am looking for a job.  I have filled out countless applications, submitted any number of resumes and have touted my various skills and talents in cover letters and letters of introduction.  Still, the phone doesn’t ring.  And although I have several ideas of what I’d like to do, I have no clear answer as to what I might do best to serve you.  So, if you could get back to me fairly quickly, I’d appreciate it, as I’m running out of money and I’m tired of being broke all the time.  My kid wants to take flute lessons, another kid needs a car, school tuition is due, and, above all, the cupboards are bare and the gas gauge on the van is at E. 

Now, I understand that you work in your own time and that your time is not exactly my time and that you have lots of other, more pressing needs on your list for today.  I’m not saying that you should ignore wars and famine or death and disappointment just for me, but if you can slip me in somewhere, well, I’d be much obliged.

Because, even though there are plenty of things to do here at home, like control the spread of the jungle that is my back yard or prevent the proliferation of cats, I’d really like to do something that pays.  If I had a job, I could delegate the task of picking up the dead cricket/grasshopper hybrid thing that sits on the bathroom floor to one of my children.   Also, it would be nice if I could have my boys clean their room rather than having to do it myself.  Donning the hazmat suit and disappearing into a dimension not only sight and sound, but of smell just isn’t doing it for me anymore.  Sure, Lord, you see lots of nasty things up there, but down here I have to touch them.  That isn’t very pleasant when you a) don’t know what an object is or…was, b) find things that seem familiar but are either wet or crunchy and shouldn’t be and c) discover new life forms that the Amazon could only dream of.  Most of the kitchen seems to be missing and, although it would be nice to find out exactly where the pastry brush, a meat thermometer and a dozen forks might have disappeared to, I'd rather someone else do it. I'm afraid I might find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa or Amelia Earhart or some poor directionally-challenged FEMA official in there.  And really, should it be up to me to dispose of 1) a self-conducted science project that ended months ago 2) a long-forgotten beaded leather thingy one of them made in cub scouts and 3) Luke Skywalker’s head from the Star Wars Lego set that no longer exists?  I mean, I have to do it for free and I don't even get that much appreciation for it.

Jimmy's under there, I just know it!

And, Lord, that’s not all.  Even though my kitchen is half missing, I’m still having problems dealing with the mess.  Right now, as I look at my kitchen floor, I’m pretty sure that if a person ate off it, they would either die or develop an immunity to every possible infectious organism that exists.  My refrigerator rivals the boys’ room and possibly the Centers for Disease Control when it comes to unidentifiable and possibly toxic organisms.  Once again, if I were working, I could delegate it to someone else in my household.  After all, it would sure be nice for someone else to put the liquefied celery or the greenish mystery meat down the garbage disposal once in a while.   

Draw me like one of your French girls, wearing only this...half a Hitler mustache.

Finally, it would be nice to see and talk to people every day.  Nice people.  People who don’t remind me of my shortcomings as a parent, cook, driver, cleaning lady, organizer, provider, and whatever else they might think of.  You see, I have teenagers and they tend to be a bit critical when it comes to my very existence.  I understand that it is part of growing up and that eventually, when they leave the house, I will finally be a well-rounded person, capable of self-actualization.  However, until then, it would be nice to talk to people who don’t abhor my very existence.  Right now, I have the privilege of speaking to a tuxedo-style cat with half a Hitler moustache that insists on alternately laying on the kitchen table and on the stove, even though I have made it perfectly clear that these places are for food only and that she may be accidentally eaten if we ever run out of macaroni and cheese.  I also have the company of an infestation of ants and flies, a host of wolf spiders and the occasional wasp that makes it in through the closed windows somehow.  I have tried valiantly to introduce the spiders to the ants and flies so that the infestation will end, but to no avail.  I’m starting to think that I might have upset you somehow, as it seems as if the plagues of Egypt have come down upon my house.  I’m somewhat thankful that you haven’t sent frogs, but I must admit that they might be helpful in the fly situation. 

Really, Jesus?  You gotta be kidding!

So, Lord, you now understand why I want to work so badly.  Although I don’t mind being at home, it sure would be nice to get out on a daily basis and to be of some value to people who actually might appreciate it and who would pay me for it.  I know I have lots of parameters and conditions, but I also have lots of talents and skills.  I’m sure there’s something out there that I can do.  Only you know what I should be doing.  Now, if you could just put it on one of those billboards that I pass every day on the way to my kid’s school…

Just my luck!  Slayer must have lots of requests.

A Housewife's Prayer to Find a Job

Dear Lord,

I thought I'd write because you don’t seem to be answering the candles I lit at church or the holy hour that I spent last Sunday night.  You see, I am looking for a job.  I have filled out countless applications, submitted any number of resumes and have touted my various skills and talents in cover letters and letters of introduction.  Still, the phone doesn’t ring.  And although I have several ideas of what I’d like to do, I have no clear answer as to what I might do best to serve you.  So, if you could get back to me fairly quickly, I’d appreciate it, as I’m running out of money and I’m tired of being broke all the time.  My kid wants to take flute lessons, another kid needs a car, school tuition is due, and, above all, the cupboards are bare and the gas gauge on the van is at E. 

Now, I understand that you work in your own time and that your time is not exactly my time and that you have lots of other, more pressing needs on your list for today.  I’m not saying that you should ignore wars and famine or death and disappointment just for me, but if you can slip me in somewhere, well, I’d be much obliged.

Because, even though there are plenty of things to do here at home, like control the spread of the jungle that is my back yard or prevent the proliferation of cats, I’d really like to do something that pays.  If I had a job, I could delegate the task of picking up the dead cricket/grasshopper hybrid thing that sits on the bathroom floor to one of my children.   Also, it would be nice if I could have my boys clean their room rather than having to do it myself.  Donning the hazmat suit and disappearing into a dimension not only sight and sound, but of smell just isn’t doing it for me anymore.  Sure, Lord, you see lots of nasty things up there, but down here I have to touch them.  That isn’t very pleasant when you a) don’t know what an object is or…was, b) find things that seem familiar but are either wet or crunchy and shouldn’t be and c) discover new life forms that the Amazon could only dream of.  Most of the kitchen seems to be missing and, although it would be nice to find out exactly where the pastry brush, a meat thermometer and a dozen forks might have disappeared to, I'd rather someone else do it. I'm afraid I might find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa or Amelia Earhart or some poor directionally-challenged FEMA official in there.  And really, should it be up to me to dispose of 1) a self-conducted science project that ended months ago 2) a long-forgotten beaded leather thingy one of them made in cub scouts and 3) Luke Skywalker’s head from the Star Wars Lego set that no longer exists?  I mean, I have to do it for free and I don't even get that much appreciation for it.

Jimmy's under there, I just know it!

And, Lord, that’s not all.  Even though my kitchen is half missing, I’m still having problems dealing with the mess.  Right now, as I look at my kitchen floor, I’m pretty sure that if a person ate off it, they would either die or develop an immunity to every possible infectious organism that exists.  My refrigerator rivals the boys’ room and possibly the Centers for Disease Control when it comes to unidentifiable and possibly toxic organisms.  Once again, if I were working, I could delegate it to someone else in my household.  After all, it would sure be nice for someone else to put the liquefied celery or the greenish mystery meat down the garbage disposal once in a while.   

Draw me like one of your French girls, wearing only this...half a Hitler mustache.

Finally, it would be nice to see and talk to people every day.  Nice people.  People who don’t remind me of my shortcomings as a parent, cook, driver, cleaning lady, organizer, provider, and whatever else they might think of.  You see, I have teenagers and they tend to be a bit critical when it comes to my very existence.  I understand that it is part of growing up and that eventually, when they leave the house, I will finally be a well-rounded person, capable of self-actualization.  However, until then, it would be nice to talk to people who don’t abhor my very existence.  Right now, I have the privilege of speaking to a tuxedo-style cat with half a Hitler moustache that insists on alternately laying on the kitchen table and on the stove, even though I have made it perfectly clear that these places are for food only and that she may be accidentally eaten if we ever run out of macaroni and cheese.  I also have the company of an infestation of ants and flies, a host of wolf spiders and the occasional wasp that makes it in through the closed windows somehow.  I have tried valiantly to introduce the spiders to the ants and flies so that the infestation will end, but to no avail.  I’m starting to think that I might have upset you somehow, as it seems as if the plagues of Egypt have come down upon my house.  I’m somewhat thankful that you haven’t sent frogs, but I must admit that they might be helpful in the fly situation. 

Really, Jesus?  You gotta be kidding!

So, Lord, you now understand why I want to work so badly.  Although I don’t mind being at home, it sure would be nice to get out on a daily basis and to be of some value to people who actually might appreciate it and who would pay me for it.  I know I have lots of parameters and conditions, but I also have lots of talents and skills.  I’m sure there’s something out there that I can do.  Only you know what I should be doing.  Now, if you could just put it on one of those billboards that I pass every day on the way to my kid’s school…

Just my luck!  Slayer must have lots of requests.

    

Plumber's Tape

I have a rant that I just must get off my chest.  It’s this: how can three BRAND NEW rolls of PLUMBER’S TAPE (PTFE thread seal tape)  disappear from my house?  In the past few days, I have run into untold rolls of plumber’s tape while attempting to find real tape in my house.  Plumber’s tape, for those of you who are not familiar with do-it-yourself plumbing, is a plastic tape that has the consistency of electrical tape except thinner and nonadhesive.  A person uses it to cover the threads of a pipe in order to help it seal better.  Static electricity allows it to stick to the pipe threads while a person screws a compression nut onto the pipe. Plumber’s putty does the same thing, but tape is less messy and lasts longer.  Remember the adhesive tape that used to come in those automobile first aid kits?  It comes on a roll like that, but don't make the mistake of using plumber's tape instead of first aid tape because your bandage will come apart and fall onto the floor, leaving your bleeding, germ-laden wound exposed and your gauze no longer sterile.

  

I just cannot understand what the allure can be for something like plumber’s tape.  It is plastic, very weak and breakable plastic.  The only uses for it that I can imagine would be to line the threads of pipes and possibly make some sort of mummy-like fashion for a Barbie doll.  That’s all.    Now, I can understand how something like this could get lost in the Walker House of Chaos, but still – a couple of weeks ago, I could find at least a couple of rolls of it.  Now I can find nothing.  And it’s not like I need huge amounts of it.  All I need is an inch or two.  It isn’t that it is expensive – you can get a roll or two for a buck.  It’s the PRINCIPAL of the thing!  This is maddening.  My new dishwasher is sitting in my living room, my old one is in the middle of the kitchen.  I have fixed the problems with the plumbing, the electrical and the drainage and now… NO TAPE???!!! 

All I can imagine is that my boys have decided that plumber’s tape can be used for far more purposes than just Egyptian Barbie clothes and that numerous experiments must be done with it in order to determine how it can possibly be used to take over the world.  I can imagine clandestine, middle-of-the-night tensile strength tests going on in my boys' room.  Things being said like, "Let's tie one end of the tape to the top bunk and the other to the cat and see if it breaks when the cat jumps down." or, better yet,  "Let's see what happens when we wrap the cat in this stuff - maybe we can make Legos stick to them."  Of course, it's entirely possible that they read the installation directions to the dishwasher and felt that it would be important to confiscate all of the plumber’s tape to provide safe keeping for it until I needed to use it, at which time they would immediately forget where they put it.  I don’t know. 

I can just see in my mind’s eye a middle-aged overweight white lady lying on the floor of Wal-Mart at 1 in the morning.  She has just passed out from exhaustion, after having driven miles through the worst areas of town to the nearest Wal-Mart and then wandered the aisles for that one elusive item that would allow her to finish her project before daybreak.  When she comes to, she mutters the words “plumber’s tape,” and then suddenly expires, leaving store employees, family members and friends to figure out the importance of such an odd and seemingly pointless object.  I don’t know, but I think it might make a good film.     

How to Help Kids with Asperger Syndrome

People have asked me what needs to be done to help kids with Asperger Syndrome.  One positive thing that we can do is to donate to organizations that help autistic kids.  The Purple Cow Farm in Wichita, Kansas, has done wonders for Robby, but it needs your help to continue its excellent work.  Please consider giving a monetary gift to this wonderful organization.  The PCF is looking for corporate sponsors for its upcoming Texas Hold'Em Poker Tournament.  If your business can sponsor or would be willing to post a flyer for this annual fundraiser, please let me know.  We need to get the word out that there is help available for kids like Robby.

The website is a bit out of date, but they are still taking donations through PayPal.

The Face of Mental Illness

This is a message from my husband, Scott Walker.

I promised myself I wasn't going to weigh in on the shooting, but I can't help myself. This kid, a kid with Aspergers, similar to my own son committed an evil act...he was not evil, he was sick. Throwing money at the mental health problem will not change that, neither will better gun control. When I was in 8th grade, I had a teacher confide in my parents that their son needed some help. Had they taken that advice, maybe I would have avoided cutting myself, attempting suicide, been able to keep a job, not been mentally abusive to my wife and children...had a completely different life. Do you know why they didn't get me help? Because of the stigma of mental illness. They refused to believe that their perfect son could have a broken brain. I love my parents and I don't blame them...I blame a culture that treats the mentally ill as pariahs. The same stigma kept me from getting my own son help until the 6th grade. For that I am ashamed, and glad that I have a wife that can recognize illness when she sees it. (She saved my ass as well, it just took a lot longer) As a culture we need to remove this stigma so more parents, siblings and individuals will get the help they need. I'm lucky, I got out alive. Many won't unless something is done to initiate change. Thank you.

That Could Have Been My Son

The events of last Friday's Newtown school shooting are a parent's worst nightmare, but for those of us who are parents of boys with Asperger Syndrome, the nightmare gets worse. My son, Robby, identifies more with the gunman, Adam Lanza, than he does those frightened children or their parents. Robby understands the pain of not belonging but not knowing what to do to gain acceptance by his peers. He understands the isolation, fear and awkwardness of not being able to connect with another human being on an emotional level. He knows what it's like being the weird, annoying kid in school - the one everybody talks about but no one talks to. He knows what it's like to be bullied and made fun of. He knows what it's like to have to switch schools because he could no longer endure being singled out as the "difficult kid." These experiences have left Robby full of rage, anxiety and loneliness. Every 14-year-old kid believes at one time or another that no one understands them. For Robby, this is the truth almost all of the time. There are a handful of people who really "get" Robby and who are able to reach him.

Scott and I don't own firearms. When our kids were small, we didn't allow them to play with guns, watch violent shows or play violent video games. We still try to be careful about the violent content of what our kids are allowed to watch or play. Still, Robby, when he becomes frustrated or angry, is subject to violent outbursts and has been known to hurt both himself and family members, especially me. Anything can become a weapon. I will admit that Robby comes by it naturally, as both of his parents possess fiery tempers; however, Robby seems to lack the ability to calm down easily and at times it is impossible to reason with him. Scott and I have worked hard to get him help, but help is expensive and time-consuming. Good help is hard to find. There are too many people in the psychiatric profession who know nothing of the management and care of the Asperger patient, but they won't tell you that. There's a lot of trial and error involved, which is, again, time-consuming and expensive. There are virtually no psych specialists in Asperger Syndrome and there needs to be. Most people who say they specialize in Asperger Syndrome are snake oil salesmen, trying to make a buck off desperate parents. And you have to understand, the small skirmishes that a parent has with their child regarding chores, homework, clothes or going to the doctor/therapist become huge battles with kids like Robby, often ending in meltdowns or violence. For Scott and I, it is emotionally exhausting and we have to pick our battles carefully. There are lots of things that we would like to happen with Robby - getting him to clean his room took months - but we just don't have the time or the energy to pursue them.

The Newtown Massacre has sparked much debate over gun control and mental health issues, which are valid and definitely deserve our attention. I believe that there is no easy answer to either issue. I don't and will never own a gun, but I can imagine the release that comes with firing a weapon, especially when I'm feeling particularly frustrated, as Nancy Lanza must have felt many times. It seems obvious that more money needs to be spent on insuring access to mental health treatment and awareness. Eliminating the stigma of mental illness is key. But what do you do when someone obviously has access to mental health treatment but is either unaware that they need it or outright refuses it? This is a huge problem that cannot be solved by simply throwing money at the problem.

Nancy Lanza and her sons have been vilified in the media and on social networking sites. I read that Ms. Lanza didn't speak much about her relationship with her son, Adam, and that she was a kind and generous person. Some are asking why she would remain silent and passive while her son obviously had serious issues and I have this to say: Until you've walked a mile in her shoes, do not pass judgment.  Autism and Asperger Syndrome have only recently come into the forefront in the mainstream media. Even with widespread autism awareness campaigns, it is still difficult to find adequate and proper care for children with Autism Spectrum Disorder, an umbrella term of which Asperger Syndrome is a part. Many parents hesitate to talk about their experiences parenting their autistic child openly because they fear that they will be judged poor parents or because they feel that no one else could possibly be experiencing the same things they are.  And to a certain extent, they are correct. A friend of mine who works with autistic kids has a saying: once you've met a person with autism, you've met a person with autism. Autistic persons can be vastly different, with differing levels of functioning and different triggers and thresholds. What might incite a meltdown in one might comfort another. My experience with my autistic son is completely different than my niece's experience with her autistic son and the boys are cousins and only a couple of years apart in age. Strategies that work for me with Robby might completely backfire for someone else who has a 14-year-old son with the identical condition. Some are passive; some have problems with violence. Parents of autistic kids sometimes have a hard time finding childcare so they can get the support they need. Other parents find their experiences so vastly different from those of other parents that they don't identify with them. Still, other parents are so busy just trying to get through each day, they are completely unaware that anything exists to help them. Although my experience has been less than easy, I consider myself lucky - Robby is much easier to handle than some kids with Asperger Syndrome. Still, when I look back on the events of last Friday and I think about the gunman, I tell myself, "THAT COULD HAVE BEEN MY SON."