Stop It Rosie

I have a love hate thing going on with PBS kids. For sure, it is good, safe programming that my kids love and I can leave it on all day without worrying, (bad mommy, too much tv, no no) unless there is a membership drive and then even the baby is scrambling for the remote. I have a few guidelines, like no the No Dragon Tales Before Mommy Has Had Her Coffee Rule. And I think I may be on some sort of PBS watch list, because when I get bored I send emails to my local station saying things like, “What happens when Clifford poops? I mean, he’s HUGE and he lives on this little island and all. Do they have a special boat to haul it away, or is that the reason the island is so lush and green?”

To date, I am still waiting for a response.

I really want to tell them that my strange, brilliant son turned PBS into a language. Jude’s brain couldn’t organize and come up with words to describe what he wanted and how he was feeling, so he borrowed from PBS. When we would put him to bed he’d say, “That’s all the PBS kids for today, folks. Thanks for watching.” When he would get up in the morning he’d say, "It’s time for Sesame Street. Stick around for Big Bird and Elmo, Cookie Monster..,” you get the picture. When he was snuggling with me before bed, he would say, ‘Teletubbies love the Noonoo, very much.”

The noonoo, is of course, the snuffly thing that follows the Teletubbies around cleaning up after them. At that point I was willing to take what I could get.

Most of all, Jude spoke Caillou.

For those of you fortunate enough not to spend your day pondering cartoon dog poop Caillou is a Canadian show about a little bald kid (why is he bald? I emailed the station with some very helpful links regarding alopecia) who goes around doing little kid things while his nice frumpy, maddeningly even tempered parents set reasonable boundaries for him while never losing their tempers. (Never. I wake up every morning thinking, is this the day Caillou’s Mommy will throw toast at Caillou’s Daddy? Where are the characters I can identify with? Sigh.)

A nararator comments on Caillou’s feelings in a simple, direct way. “Caillou was sad that the bird flew away. Caillou was angry that Rosie (his younger sister) took his toy. Caillou was afraid of the storm.”

Jude was mesmerized by this. As the show built up to the big moment of Caillou expressing himself “I don’t WANT to play with Rosie,” Jude would begin to jump and flap as if it were almost midnight on New Year’s Eve. He would yell CAILLOU” whenever something happened that he did not like. Soon he began to branch out, repeating whole episodes perfectly when they related to what we were doing, like when we took the el train, Jude would do the whole episode when Caillou takes the subway with Mommy.

Then he started calling his baby brother Rosie. “No Rosie, that’s mine!” from the countless episodes depicting sibling conflict. Poor Eden would walk in the room and Jude would yell, “Mommy, Daddy says I have to play with Rosie!” Eden still answers to both names.

Jude would do Caillou’s laugh when he was stressed. Once when I left him for two days to help my mother move he did the “Caillou is sad in daycare” episode for a week. Jude’s school had a name for it. I called up to see how he was after a rough morning. “Well," says Maggie, the teacher’s aide, “Well, he’s still Caillouing a little, but I think he’ll be okay."

Sometimes the references would be very subtle, and heartbreakingly poignant. When we were on the way to a new occupational therapist, I heard the nararator’s voice from the back seat, "Caillou was excited, but a little afraid, too”. One night on the way home from a late therapy session we stopped to look for an el train on a quiet Wrigleyville side street.

It was February, and the leafless trees shook in the wind.

“Suddenly,” said Jude looking up at the sky, “Caillou felt all alone.”

Perfect.

I remember, as a preteen boiling with angst and fury and desire, how a certain song would capture exactly how I felt, put all my murky muddled feelings into words. Song lyrics, poetry, art, that is what they do. Caillou? Poetry? Now I’m scaring myself.

I will say I am grateful for the little bald boy in his yellow shirt. (Jude wants to wear the same shirt every day as well, and I am sure this is no accident. Jude has five shirts, all the same color and design. Thanks a lot, Caillou.) Jude does have a poetic soul, I am sure. There's stuff in there that just needs a way to come out. I have seen non-verbal kids with autism create long sentences, even make jokes with their velcro picture books. PBS kids is Jude’s sign language, his pecs book. Last year he started substituting his words for Caillou’s, using Caillou’s sentence structure but changing the words to fit the situation.

“I don’t want to go to school” instead of “I don’t want to go to daycare,” from the show.

Now he only Caillous when he needs to get across a more complicated emotion.

Like, applying himself at therapy tasks, and finding them surprisingly enjoyable. “But I thought you didn’t like vegetables, Caillou.” Brilliant. I kiss him goodnight and as I am closing the door, a quiet sad voice:” I don’t want to go to bed, I didn’t find the treasure yet.” My eyes fill with tears. Ain’t it the truth, love. Not enough hours in day to find that proverbial treasure. We’ll try again tomorrow.

So, this fall, when Jude goes off to school early in the morning and comes home well past PBS kids time, I will probably turn the tube to Channel Eleven for Eden and let him watch.

Except for Barney. Oh my God, Barney.

Please. Don’t get me started.

I Like It. It Has a Good Beat, and Jay Jay Can Dance To It.

Jude loves Jay Jay the Jet Plane. The figure, the wooden one. We are on the fourth Jay Jay in three years. They tend to wear out from so much dancing. Let me explain.

Kids with sensory stuff do this thing calling stimming, which is short for stimulation. They do things to wake up sluggish parts of their brains. Which is why I can spot a spectrum kid a mile away. Coming out of the doctor's office with a sticker, holding it up at a weird angle and peering at it with one eye and the other closed. Back and forth, near and far with the sticker. Classic.

Jude holds Jay Jay in just that way , and Jay Jay dances to music. Jay Jay flies right next to Jude's eyeball and moves his wings in time to the song. Jay Jay is a excellent dancer, too, and I think he has a future in conducting. He really captures the feel of the music, whether it be classical music (Jay Jay just adores Vivaldi) or the background to a cartoon. When Jay Jay is worn down, and missing an engine, his movement is droopy and half hearted. When Jay Jay is brand spanking new, his movements are sweeping and grand. Apparently Jay Jay has bad days just like the rest of us.

When music comes on Jude yells NEED JAY JAY FOR DANCING!!! And we all join the hunt, rushing to find Jay Jay. I do try to keep Jay Jay handy, because you never know what music will be Jay Jay worthy. Jay Jay does not like Tori Amos or Neil Young. He likes country music (no accounting for some planes's’ taste) and to my husband's delight, Jay Jay can really get in to an industrial ambient piece. Don'’t even try to get Jay Jay to move to smooth Jazz, but Jay Jay loves the Ramones. Yea.

The truth is, I am supposed to be discouraging the kind of visual stimming that is going on here with our little blue friend. But when Jay Jay is triumphantly directing Beethoven's Ode to Joy and Eden is standing next to Jude with his fingers together, moving along with the music, expressing all sorts of feelings that can'’t be put into words, well, Jay Jay is all good with me. Rock on, Jay Jay. Rock on.

God Save the Queen

There are just so many hours a parent can parent per day. We have our limitations. There should be a warning light that starts blinking when our reserves get dangerously low. Then the kids will know to stay away. Run, save yourself. Go for help.

The other night, all I wanted in the whole, wide wide world was to watch a mystery program on TV. It was one of those convoluted British mysteries where if you are not riveted, glued, unflinching in your attention you will have no idea what is going on and it will just be people with bad teeth mumbling and shuffling around and the whole thing is pointless and you will have to change the channel and watch a rerun of girls with implants eating smoothies made with cockroaches and raccoon phlegm.

So you can see how important this was.

I announced it. I said, “I AM GOING TO WATCH MY SHOW.” Of course Jude and Eden were in bed so I just had to make sure that Don and Sage were going to leave me alone. I do want to add that I do not do this often, only when I am so mentally and physically trashed from therapy and doctors appointments and everything else that I forget that I am asking for the impossible, which is for the circus that is our lives to take a break for an hour. Isn’t going to happen.

I settle in to watch, comfortable on the couch, and I hear Jude throwing himself against his door, shrieking, like he is on fire, which in itself is not that unusual but I must investigate.

I pad down the hall in my slippers and open the door, which is hooked on the outside to prevent Jude from taking a walking tour of the North Side at 2 a.m.

Jude flees from the room, pantsless, as if a rabid pack of wolves is on his tail.

I follow him into my room, where he is sitting on the couch, panting, saying, "it’s an accident, it was just a accident" over and over.

What is, honey? Oh. He stands up and I see. There is a brown smudge on the couch. Lovely.

I put Jude on the potty and head in to his room with the Clorox wipes.

Don is standing over Jude’s bed, staring at the pillow. I come closer, afraid to look.

I look. There, sitting on the pillow for all the world like a mint at a fancy hotel, is poo.

Bigger than a mint, though, and not near as appealing.

I pick up the offending (and terrifying) object and flush it. Don throws the bedding in the laundry and makes the bed with clean sheets. I clean Jude off and we send him back to bed with a bag of Cheetos, yes you read right, I told you, I can only parent well for 10 hours and then things start to deteriorate. They kept him happy. I would have given him a beer if it meant I could watch my show.

I sit back down and I hear wailing from the other room. Eden is up. Why? Because Satan is alive and well. Don brings him in and apparently Eden has woken up because he wants a banana. Woke up screaming, for a banana. Okay, sit and eat your banana while I look up the synopsis of my stupid show on the net so maybe I can figure out what is up with Inspector Lynely who always looks like he has a headache in his eyebrows. I find that strangley alluring, if you want to know the truth.

Don puts Eden back in bed with banana in his teeth and we turn off the monitor because Eden wants to hang with us and does not understand the importance of rest, his or mine.

His rage at being exiled is audible without the monitor, anyway.

Sage comes in. Poor Sage. He always ends up being the last straw. I use up all my patience on his brothers because I know they can’t help it, and I just want a quiet moment, please God oh please, and I have hope that if no one interrupts me I will be able to follow the plot, just a little.

“Eden’s crying,” he says. “I know, honey, he’ll fall asleep soon.

But it’s loud.

Go tell Daddy.

I did.

Well, he’ll stop.

When?

Shhh

I need a snack?

Where is Daddy?

I don’t know’…

Find him!!
I can’t

Don comes in.

Sage needs his snack.

Can you get it?

What is there?

Look in the fridge!

Did you get milk?

Hush!

Sage:

Can I get my hamster out?

No!

Why not?

Because?

Why?

Then it happens. My head starts to spin and green vomit comes out. SHUT YOUR MOUTH!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!! ALL I ASK IS FOR ONE LOUSY HOUR, BUT NO!! YOU ARE ALL SO SELFISH!!!

Sage’s lip starts to quiver and tears begin to flow. I am ashamed, furious at myself, furious at Don, and more than a little ticked at God. It is so unfair. I want to be a nice Mommy, but I am daily pushed and pulled and stretched so far past any normal limits that I feel like I never get the chance. It really, really stinks. I am stupid, so stupid for setting us all up like this. In this moment, and others like it, I can see why people really lose it and do terrible, awful things. It scares me.

I turn off the TV, and Don goes to get Eden, who is still screaming, and I lay down on the couch and Sage lies down too and we pull the blanket over our heads. Sorry, I say, but that is lame, because I have said it too many times this week and I am afraid he will think I don’t mean it, but I do, I really, really do, if he could only know how much.

“ I’m tired, I say, aware of the whine in my voice Jude…Jude pooped on his pillow.” Sage lets out a snort. He tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

It’s not funny. I say, don’t laugh.

He’s laughing.

What did you do with it? He asks.

Well, I say, I sent it ..overseas.

What!? He asks incredulously. You did?

Yep. I say. I sent it to the queen of England.

Guffaw.

What did she do?

Well, the British Army intercepted it, and they saw it as part of an international plot to disgust the royal family , so they blew it up, but see they weren’t thinking, because poop, well, you know, it splatters..

And Don came in, and we are giggling under the blanket, and he sits by us, and says he is sorry about my show, what show, the stupid show, what a waste of time tv is, and Sage and I start to tickle him, and we are all screaming and it is way, way too late for that but who cares, really.

I remember being yelled at, and I held it against my parents, and swore I would never do the same. I try hard to remember the nice stuff they said and did, because I want Sage to remember the tickles and the laughter and maybe cut me some slack when he is a grown man with kids of his own, and thinks of a bungled plot to nauseate the Queen of England.

I hope that is what stands out for him, that I tried hard, and that I loved him.

I hope he remembers I loved him.