This has been cross-posted to the WD.

There may be a few of you left who recall that the wife and I had some kids a couple years back. This was no small feat; it required cutting edge science (including LASERS!), huge scary needles and private time behind locked doors with wrinkly copies of XXX pornographic magazines; all under the wacky supervision of our capable and ethnic doctor Balki Bartakamus. It really was a sexy superscientific time, to be sure. And- for the record: had I known that insurance would not cover the cost of them, I would not have taken all those magazines home under my coat. I assumed they were for practice.

There may also be some of you who have no idea who I am, or maybe you are just interested in the romantic aspects of the story. Well, perhaps you should start with the original ten part saga, which I have conveniently linked to here. That's a lot of reading, so if you don't mind, we aren't gonna wait for you. Catch up on your own time, okay?

Alright then, moving on. You'd figure (or at least I would figure) that all the hard work is done, right? All the the humiliating probing and painful surgical procedures (for her) and all the jakkin' it (for me) had totally paid off- BABIES! Two of 'em! Whew! It's Miller Time! A job well done, congratulations all! Well played sir! Off you go then! Back to your life of ease and privilege! Golf clap!

Oh no- I WAS MISINFORMED. As it turns out, all the science and children being born stuff was just the beginning. Sweet sweaty jesus- it's like it never ends. These kids- they need stuff, like, goods and services. All the time! And one or more of us has to be around to provide these goods and services. With absolutely no compensation in return! Unless of course you live in a region where poopy diapers are considered currency, in which case I am the wealthiest person you know. The boys are more than generous in that regard. I'll be sure to thank them someday when we get to retire to our exclusive private island paradise. Or, in real world terms, "retire" means "sleep under" and "exclusive private island paradise" means "mile high mound of mouldering shitty diapers". I guess that's sort of an island. We'll be warm either way, right?

Oh wait- is it to late to preface this? Dammit- it probably is. Okay, now we have to start over. I wanted a preface.

[PREFACE:] Do not, under any circumstances, make this post out to be a "poor me" thing. I am absolutely in no way looking for frowny face sympathy. If that's what you want to react with, that's fine; but I'm here to tell you everything is gonna be okay. I got enough sympathy a few months ago from the people who followed me to Cranky Matty at a time when I wanted it, so I'm all good now. [/PREFACE]

Tyler is volatile. He turns from silly chirping gigglepie to raging shithead demon in a heartbeat for no good reason. BOOM goes the dynamite! It is hard to take him places because the possible public meltdowns are loud, violent and embarrassing (which, as you know, is really saying something as I lost my shame in 'Nam to a sniper's bullet). You should see the dirty looks I get from people when they see me carrying his kicking, shrieking ass out of wherever we may be. I have to either sling him over my shoulder or wedge him under my arm like a football, and I'm sure people think I'm abusing him or something. Hell no- I'm just trying to not get kicked in my privates (he has unnaturally good aim) or bitten on my face. Or gouged with fingernails. Or punched! Thus far he has not tried to use weapons on me, but we're not letting him have his first set of nunchucks until he turns at least four. No edged weapons until seven, unless he asks nicely. I should say here that it's not as bad as all that all the time; Tyler is often the cutest, most courteous kid in the world. But those tantrums, wooooo boy.

Tyler, Jeckyll/Hyde split personality and all, is a completely normal two and a half year old boy. Yikes! It is a tribute to parents everywhere that they haven't thrown all two year old toddlers off a mountainside or into a volcano. We're heroes, saving humanity every day.

Casey is the sweet one. He plays happily most all the time and loves to cuddle. When he gets upset there's usually a darn fine reason why, like maybe it's nap time or his juice cup is empty or you forgot to change his diaper for eight hours or something. You can take him anywhere, he doesn't mind. Everyone wants to babysit Casey, he's so happy and agreeable to anything. He likes to stand on your feet and hug your legs, which is just adorable except for the fact that you can't move until he's done because you'll knock him on his little butt. He sings along with songs he hears on TV- not well, but c'mon- He's two. What's this? American Idol?

A few months ago, Casey was diagnosed with autism.

Wow- that sure sucks the air right out of the room, doesn't it? Sorry for that- I spent two days trying to think of a funnier way to say it, but I've got nothing. But look, like I said in the super important preface, everything's gonna be okay. Eventually. Like, after many, many events, which is what "eventually" means. In case you don't know what autism is, and you aren't alone because it turns out nobody knows exactly what it is, here's the entry provided by our friends (we really have at least one friend there! Hi Bethy!) at Wikipedia. If you don't want to read that whole thing, and I can't blame you because YAWN, here's the gist: autism is a developmental disorder based in the central nervous system that covers a tremendous range of mysterious learning and social disabilities that restrict communication, social interaction, imaginative thinking, activity, and interest level. Basically, it messes up everything you do or think about. A bit of a hurdle, to say the least.

We had suspected for the last year or so that something may not be right with the little guy. While Tyler was getting into dinosaurs and trains and balls and other crazy boy stuff, Casey preferred carrying a plastic spoon around and staring at it for hours. Ty can count higher than I can and speaks almost as well, probably with more clarity. Casey doesn't speak. He makes noises (sooo cute) and sings, but not with words, just sounds that are almost like the words. He jumps everywhere- it is his preferred mode of transportation. HOP HOP HOP! Here comes Casey! When they are around other kids, Tyler mixes it up with the roughest ones twice his size and holds his own because he's like a cannon ball. Casey stands apart from the crowd in his own little world, completely detached from whatever anyone else is doing.

For a long time neither Becky or I wanted to admit that there may be a problem. It was obvious since birth that Ty & Casey were almost exactly opposite personalities, so we figured that Casey was just going to develop at a much different pace than his feisty twin. We would just give it some time & everything would be fine.

For me, it was this past Christmas that was the first big red flag. Becky, in an amazing effort to provide the Greatest Christmas EVER, went absolutely insane and bought the entire toddler section at Toys 'R' Us for the kids. She was so excited and had the best intentions, but even I was completely overwhelmed by the vast array of presents that awaited these two year old boys, and I have seen some crazy shit in my day. It took her a solid week of late-nighters to wrap all this stuff. It was amazing and frightening at the same time, sort of like Victoria Beckham, and featured obscene piles of plastic parts, also like Victoria Beckham. You'd think that with this department store's worth of goodies the kids would be just rabid to start ripping into it. Well, as it happened, not really.

Tyler was game enough, but by the seventh or eighth awesome gift he was really overloaded and wasn't much for opening more. Casey sat with his first present, an abacus, which we had to open for him because he just wasn't getting the concept. For the rest of Christmas morning he sat in the midst of his massive piles of unopened gifts, turning his abacus from one side to the other, staring at the beads as they slid back and forth.

I knew then that this was not normal behavior. Where's the unmitigated greed? Where's the crazy animal lust that only rending wrapping paper from cardboard and plastic can satiate? We were practically handing him the keys to the toy store, and Casey just wanted to flip some beads around, and then go back and stare at his plastic spoon. It wasn't right, but it also wasn't a surprise. In the back of my mind I had expected it, and thinking back on it all, I'm pretty sure that was why I was such a grumpy shit before the holidays. I gave Becky a hard time about buying all those toys because secretly I just knew that Casey would not have a normal little boy reaction to the tremendous Santa bounty. I was right, and it was heartbreaking.

A month or so later my brother & I were at work listening to a story about this famous autistic savant on National Public Radio, who besides being this impossible math genius is also a great advocate for the victims of autism. On a whim I decided to do a quick Google search. Near the top of the results list was this article, "Five Early Signs of Autism". Casey was five for five. Five for five is a great day in baseball, but kind of a shitty day in autism. I read the list, got up from my computer and walked into the never used darkroom in the back so my brother wouldn't see me cry.

HA-HA! Kidding! I wasn't crying back there! I was... uhh... okay... I was crying. You know, quietly, like a man. Macho, macho sobbing. Even cowboys cry sometimes- I saw that in a movie. You know, the one with the gay cowboys.

I e-mailed Becky the link to that article. She wasn't sold right away, it took her a day or two to come to grips with Casey's five for five performance. Lots of denial at first, "No- only one or two of these I agree with." Eventually, she saw it too. Once that settled in and we got through the requisite distress, Becky took action.

My wife is amazing. This is a dumb sounding thing to say, but having an autistic kid could not happen to a better parent. She's been a dynamo. She sets up all the appointments & screenings. She calls all the organizations that need to be called. She organizes the landslide of paperwork that keeps getting shoved at us. There is a progress and sleep journal for the neurologist that Becky updates daily. She attends the speech and occupational therapy sessions and educates the rest of the family about what the various therapists want us to do with Casey when he's not in therapy. Becky arranges our schedules to accommodate drop offs and pick ups. This is, of course, all on top of her full time Very Important Job (that includes the Very Important Health Insurance) and all the normal headaches that come with taking care of twin toddlers. Let's also take this moment to acknowledge the fact that she's super hot and smells great.

At this point you are thinking, "Um- Matt, what the hell are you good for?" Not a whole lot. Moral support, I guess. Back rubs. Geez- I'm a load. Clearly I married up in a big way. Yay me!

Well, this is where we are now. We've just started various therapies and are investigating special preschools. This stuff is ludicrously expensive, and we are very fortunate that B works for a huge company that has nice health insurance. Honestly, I don't know how people who don't have that going for them can do this. There's also a little bad news/good news involved with this. The bad news is that Casey is considered quite impaired; but the good news is because of this he qualifies for a whole heap of free stuff from the state, county and city. This includes all sorts of special programs and classes, including swimming lessons and horseback riding! I think tiny Casey on a giant horse will be hilarious. I will have pictures- you better believe that. All the doctors and therapists have been very positive about Casey's chances at overcoming his autism, the hope being that he'll be caught up enough that he'll be able to go to the same schools as his brother before too long. We have been very encouraged by his early progress.

Almost every day we'll be hanging in the living room, and Tyler will be in the midst of an epic meltdown with all the shrieking and throwing and everything else. In stark contrast, Casey will be sitting on the couch or standing at the window, singing, maybe he's hopping around because he's excited about something. He looks so happy. The question is always the same, "Hey- if he's broken, do we really need to fix him?" We laugh because we know the answer.

Of course we do. And we will.

Tags: Kids Autism The WD Infertility The Home Front

Hi all! I've been disappeared for a while. Just really overwhelmed with things now. I could have come on here and whined some & we all could have had a good cry about it, but I hate that more than hemorrhoids, so I won't do it.

Instead I thought I'd bring something for show-n-tell today, a somewhat appropriate little thing I just found while looking for something else. Back in the golden olden times some of you may remember I ran a dumb thing called M.O.M. over at the WD, which was really just a desperate (and largely successful) ploy to get lots of girls to giggle and write me love notes. Anyway, those of you in the know will recall that I had a newsletter that had a total of nine issues before I got distracted by something shiny and stopped doing it. Those were fun, weren't they? I always wanted to write another one.

Well, as it happens, I did. Actually I never finished it, but I did get a nice start on M.O.M. News #10. Nobody has ever seen it, and I had completely forgotten about it. Tonight I was doing a Spotlight search for some artwork I did years ago to recycle into a new project and I ran across this opening article, which was set forth as a completely lame excuse as to why I hadn't gotten around to writing a new newsletter in so long. Here it is.

it's M.O.M. NEWS!       number 48       11/22/2003

Where have you guys been? I've been worried sick!

Ha-ha-ha! Kidding! I joke with you. It's not really issue #48, it's only issue #10. I just wanted to make it seem like I'm not so lazy and neglectful by distracting you with an amiable deflection- a red herring, if you will. For a moment there I had you thinking that maybe- just maybe, you had somehow missed 39 issues of M.O.M. News. Since it has been so long since the last one, that story certainly seems plausible... mayhem couldn't possibly be so lackadaisical as to go this many months with no M.O.M. update, could he? It must somehow be your fault! Perhaps you'd forgotten to check your PMs in a timely fashion and all those newsletters had just disappeared. Naturally, that doesn't seem likely, since the only reason you ever log in is for the flashy envelope. No way you missed 39 PMs! It must be something else. Wait! Did you say something to upset him? Is he just not sending you newsletters because he is mad at you? What was it that you did? You don't know!

I assure you- I am that lackadaisical. Not your fault at all! All mine. MINE! See what I did there? I shifted blame. My one true skill!

It's just like this one time, back at the pool hall, when Chester (the peg-leg bartender) came in one day demanding to know who had been screwin' his girlfriend behind his back. We asked him how he knew she'd been steppin' out on him, and he answered, "Doc says Lola's got crabs. I ain't got crabs, so it must be one of youze! Whoever it is- yer DEAD!"

I quickly spoke up and said, "Hey man- not me! Everyone knows I only have the Clap! It must be Frankie- he's always diggin' at his pecker!"

Chester then broke a barstool over Frankie's head and put him in a coma for three weeks. That was really unfortunate for Frankie as he missed three weeks worth of Carnival wages and then was evicted from the dockside hotel room he'd been sharing with Freddy Two-Toes and Slow Johnny for missing the rent. He was killed a few weeks later by a hobo who caught him stealing a ham sandwich in an abandoned boxcar down by the old paint factory. Don't mess with hobos- they're mean!

Frankie hadn't been humping Lola, of course. Frankie didn't even have crabs. He just liked to grab himself in the presence of others. I smartly neglected to mention to Chester that I not only had the Clap, but a ripping case of crabs too. I had picked them up from one of my regular "conjugal visits" to the women's prison outside of town where I had lots of pen-pals. But Chester's Lola- she was hotsie-totsie! Those gams went all the way up, if you know what I'm sayin'. Plus, Lola wouldn't have given Frankie the time of day- she was pure class, what with all the teeth she had. A lot more teeth than those prison gals, I can tell you. And hair in the proper places. Woo!

FYI- I had Doc burn all my cooties when I turned seventeen, so rest assured- there's nothing moving around in these pants!


Anyhow, on with the show.

Tags: Pals Internet The WD What?