Blood, Science, Autism, & McDonald’s Ice Cream
Mamacita says: First of all, I haven’t had anything to eat since 10 p.m. last night, and as I type this, it’s almost 6 p.m. I had to go into the hospital lab today for a fasting blood test. It was an interesting experience.
Excuse me while I go get a sandwich.
Where was I? Oh, yes, at the hospital vampire lab.
While I was signing in and promising them ALL of my blood so they could test a little of it, I heard a commotion from one of the little rooms. “Someone is scared,” I said.
No. Someone was autistic, and the social worker, nurses, and techs had been in there with him for several hours trying to persuade him to let them draw a little blood. This was the fourth day of it.
“I want ice cream. McDonald’s ice cream!” the young teen kept insisting. “After you let us draw your blood, you can have McDonald’s ice cream,” he was promised by everyone in the room.
Still, he could get no further than close enough to touch the chair.
I asked the nurse checking me in if this boy had ever seen blood drawn at all. She didn’t think so. I asked her if it might help if he saw my blood drawn. She went and asked the group in the room, and I was invited in.
Fortunately – because I am not an easy lay draw, this time it went smoothly and easily. I said “Why, this doesn’t hurt. I can’t even feel it!” and “This is just a rubber band! Just a rubber band!” and the boy would call me on it whenever he could, reaching out and feeling the wide rubber band and testing the “bounce” of my vein. I said “I get ice cream after this is done!” and he repeated that several times. “Is it over already? I didn’t feel anything! It didn’t hurt a bit! Now I get ice cream!” It was kind of odd to have a crowd of perfect strangers clustered around me as I sat in the chair with a needle in my arm, but who cares?
People educate each other in all kinds of ways, and more often than not it’s those unexpected, unplanned ways that are the most effective.
I was wearing a Spangler Science shirt, and the social worker said he’d seen Steve on “Ellen” and asked me all about the products and experiments, and if they worked for autistic people.
Yes, indeed, I told him. Science isn’t just for geniuses whose brains work “normally,” whatever that might be. Science is for everybody – all ages and levels and personalities, and it connects with every other aspect of curriculum and philosophy and hobby and life. I told him he might start by sharing a story about people eating bread and butter, and then making butter. All science ain’t rocket science.
When I left, the boy had advanced as far as the chair, which was a first, but it was doubtful they’d draw any blood today. Then again, the day isn’t over yet. He was still demanding McDonald’s ice cream, but I hope they didn’t give him 
any if he didn’t let them draw his blood. Autistic kids can manipulate, too. They’re not stupid.
I gave the social worker the Spot Dot I always carry in my 
purse – it’s good for so many things: reading, drawing attention to something, rewards, gaining a child’s confidence, magic, whimsy. . . . and yes, I do consider magic and whimsy to be right up there with reading.
The boy and his “crew” will be back tomorrow to try again. Maybe they’re a step closer, and maybe they’re not. Who knows? A kid is a kid, and autism has nothing to do with THAT.
Now I want ice cream. And I’d go out and get some, too, except for three minor details: I’m fat; I’m diabetic; and I’m broke.
If not for those things, I’d be in line at the Pokey Treat Jiffy Treat RIGHT NOW.
Darn minor details.
P.S. You’ll get there, kid. I liked your face. However, the ice cream is only for AFTER you let them draw your blood. A deal is a deal.
There’s Room For Everyone In This World, If Everyone Makes Some Room*
Mamacita says: This is Moxy Fruvous, one of my favorite bands. They’ve been on hiatus for several years, no doubt the day after they discovered that I liked them. I have that effect on bands. And restaurants. I don’t expect them to get back together any time soon, as they’ve all gone on to other things; besides, them rebanding would make me happy and we can’t have that, can we. I still love them, though. They had a beautiful sound.
Go on and click the link:
We got a call to write a song about the war in the Gulf
But we shouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings
So we tried, then gave up, ’cause there was no such song
But the trying was very revealing. . . .
What makes a person so poisonous righteous
That they’d think less of anyone who just disagreed?
She’s just a pacifist, he’s just a patriot
If I said you were crazy, would you have to fight me?
Fighters for liberty, fighters for power
Fighters for longer turns in the shower
Don’t tell me I can’t fight, ’cause I’ll punch out your lights
And history seems to agree that I would fight you for me
So we read and we watched all the specially selected news
And we learned so much more ’bout the good guys
Won’t you stand by the flag? Was the question unasked
Won’t you join in and fight with the allies?
What could we say…we’re only 25 years old?
With 25 sweet summers, and hot fires in the cold
This kind of life makes that violence unthinkable
We’d like to play hockey, have kids and grow old
Fighters for Texaco, fighters for power
Fighters for longer turns in the shower
Don’t tell me I can’t fight ’cause I’ll punch out your lights
And history seems to agree that I would fight you for me
That us would fight them for we
He’s just a peacenik and she’s just a warhawk
That’s where the beach was, that’s where the sea
What could we say…we’re only 25 years old?
And history seems to agree
that I would fight you for me
That us would fight them for we
Is that how it always will be?
——–Moxy Fruvous
Learn this by heart. Do it. All four parts. (Please.) You know you want to, and I know you can. A Cappella is a kind of magic.
*from Pete’s Dragon
Happy Mother’s Day to All, and to All a Good Night
Mamacita says: I was reading an article somewhere, by somebody*, that stated that no matter how old we get, there are still times when we want our mother. Our fifty-year-old mother.
When our mothers are young, we don’t consider them ‘friends.’ We don’t consider them young, either, because when we’re very young, all adults are old. Heck, our 12-year-old cousins seem like adults. Our 22-year-old teacher and Grandma: one and the same, age-wise. No, to a child, most adults are old; they’re not sweet young things. They never were; it’s not possible.
Our mother was always a mother. She had no life before us. She’s just Mommy, when we’re young, and when she’s young. We don’t even know she was young till we look at old pictures. And then we’re blown away because, “Oh my gosh, look how YOUNG she was there!”
But as we get older, our mothers seem to stay the same, and somehow the years between us don’t matter as much as they used to.
They stay the same, that is, until we take a good long look at them and it hits us that they look old. Not just mom-old, but OLD. Wrinkly. And you know there’s white underneath the Miss Clairol. And they aren’t as sure-footed as they used to be.
This is shocking, but it’s okay, as long as the MOM is still there inside the stranger-every-day body. You know, MOM. The lady who can make magic with a word or a touch? Her? That’s the one.
Good thing WE’LL never get old like that, huh.
I’ve read that when we are in our twenties, the fifty-year-old mother is somehow at her peak of Mom-ness and Friend-ness. Our fifty-year-old mother is an expert in so many things.
What we don’t realize is that our fifty-year-old mother is still missing HER fifty-year-old mother.
And what very few of you know yet, is that your fifty-year-old mother is still as insecure and wondering as she was when she was in her twenties. Your fifty-year-old mother is still beating herself to death over mistakes she made when you were three.
How do I know this? I’d rather not say.
The seventy-year-old mother is still cool. Still Mom. It’s just that the fragility is starting to show, and the mortality thing comes to mind more than we’d like.
The fifty-year-old Mom is the epitome of Momitude. She KNOWS things. We should listen more to our fifty-year-old Mom.
Unless she’s a meddling idiot with outdated stupid ideas and a lot of unwanted advice, of course. You don’t have to listen then.
Chances are, however, that if your fifty-year-old Mom is mean and judgmental and delights in hurting people’s feelings, she was exactly the same when she was in her twenties. Bodies change a lot**. Personalities seldom do.
The following has been making the internet rounds for a long time now, and most of you have no doubt seen it before. However, I’m posting it anyway, because for some reason, it means more to me with each passing year.
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The Images of Mother
4 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mommy can do anything!
8 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mom knows a lot! A whole lot!
12 YEARS OF AGE ~ My Mother doesn’t really know quite everything.
14 YEARS OF AGE ~ Naturally, Mother doesn’t know that, either.
16 YEARS OF AGE ~ Mother? She’s hopelessly old-fashioned.
18 YEARS OF AGE ~ That old woman? She’s way out of date!
25 YEARS OF AGE ~ Well, she might know a little bit about it.
35 YEARS OF AGE ~ Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.
45 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wonder what Mom would have thought about it?
65 YEARS OF AGE ~ Wish I could talk it over with Mom.
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Let’s talk things over with Mom while we have the chance.
If your own mommy doesn’t appreciate you, come right on over here. I’m not saying exactly how old this Mommy is, but she’s in her peak and prime of Momitude. I do, however, screw it up sometimes, even now. I do my best. That’s all we can do, in any and every phase.
I have a lot of advice, but I’ll wait till you ask me for it***.
*If I knew the author and the name of the article, I’d have mentioned it up above, silly.
**Unless you’re Jamie Lee Curtis.
***Most of the time.
