Jake Plummer is a nimrod and Jesus is for winners.

 In other news, ex-Broncos quarterback, Jake Plummer, is sick of seeing Tim Tebow display his love for Jesus Christ. I have two words for Plummer – Shove and It. Okay?

You know what I'm sick of? Teen moms plastered across covers of magazines geared towards young girls. I'm super-stoked that this is what my daughters see at eye-level when I am checking out at Walmart, subliminally affecting their ability to discern between what is and isn't appropriate.

I'm sick of Jersey Shore – I'm Italian and all the real Italians I know aren't spray-tanned, don't refer to themselves as guido's or juice-heads, and they speak the language. Their collars aren't popped and they aren't disrespecting women.  Italian culture is about family and loyalty – not demeaning your heritage to make a buck.

I'm sick of people “occupying” places instead of “doing” great things. Stop camping out in public parks, blaming people for your problems, sexually assaulting women and children, and pushing drugs - be part of the solution. Find your happy place and occupy that, okay? Oh, and just because dogs can defecate outside doesn't mean it is okay or acceptable for a human.

I'm sick of perfectly healthy people riding Larks in grocery stores because they are lazy. I went to Target today and there were more motorized shopping vehicles than there were kid-friendly carts.  If anything, they should be making mini-electric short buses for us parents who have kids.

I'm sick of seeing Bratz dolls and pageant kids and five-year old girls dressed as hookers. Whatever happened to preserving youth and innocence? A Peter Pan collar is a good thing and a lot less tempting than a crop-top to a sexual predator – who, consequently, are everywhere.

I'm sick of people getting all offended because people pray. Newsflash: Tim Tebow isn't peddling an evil message or one that is exploiting children, promoting promiscuity or entertaining vulgarity. He isn't abusive or inflammatory.  He is giving THANKS. He is showing love for the Father that gave him life and blessed him with his numerous gifts. Why is that so offensive?

Maybe if Tim Tebow raped a minor or was arrested for possession of a weapon or selling drugs, and upon making a touch down flicked everybody in the stands the bird, we wouldn't be so offended by him. Because that makes total sense, right?

I'm going to take the prayer thing. Just sayin...

The multi-faceted hair of Maddie Reese

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Seems to be a prominent theme in my life. What's a girl to do? Don't know. Today, I really don't care. It is too beautiful of a day for controversy.

Today I have been thinking a lot about time, and how much I lost occupying my thoughts with it's very nature. Whoa. Deep.

Actually, I was thinking about how all of a sudden I have three kids - Roman is just about 9 months old, Maddie is almost 3 and Bella is 7. It seemed like just yesterday I was stuffing myself full of Twinkies, fat and pregnant with my first baby.

Then Maddie interrupted my thought by asking me (again) if the dishwasher was clean. Hmmmm. Aren't you supposed to be two, kid? What is your fascination with the darn dishes? And, then I got to thinking how she was just a baby this time last year - her "big perm" just emerging. Then I got to looking at pictures and I came across these awesome shots. This will make you smile on your Friday!

Justin likes beavers and autism is cool!

Like, OMG! Justin Bieber might be a father! And, Kim Kardashian is getting divorced - again! Did you hear LiLo is going back to jail for doing more drugs? And, a two-pound monkey is getting a root-canal! Oh, and autism can be an advantage! Yay!

(Disclaimer: I am about to get real hot in here, so if you can't handle passion, you might want to close your window right about now).

What the FUCK! That's right, I said it. This situation totally warrants the F-bomb. The first few lines you read above are all HEADLINES on mainstream media websites. Who the hell cares and when did a developmental disability become a bonus? Who is writing this crap?

It's Vaccine Safety Awareness Week. Not many people know or even care. Our children are being injured, given lifelong disability, and dying because government is attempting to force you to inject your children with poison and DNA from other species to protect from childhood illness like chicken pox and the stomach bug. Nope- not newsworthy. No mention on Fox, CNN, WSJ – nowhere. Maybe if it had a ribbon and a color and was plastered across cereal boxes and fast food buckets of chicken, people might pay attention. But, there is no money to be made from healthy people.

Nowhere on any of these sites is their any mention that the CDC may be involved in the biggest scientific fraud in history. Oh, no. No discussion that scientists and government agencies that are supposed to be “protecting” the health of Americans – our children – have deliberately been hiding that the multi-billion dollar vaccine industry is fully aware their poison is, in fact, causing autism!

Instead, scientists are releasing “new information” that autism is an advantage. The scientists in bed with Big Pharma are obviously attune that the shit is about to hit the fan and are trying to prepare the zombies that even though vaccines are causing autism – it's okay! Because autism is fun! You might have a good memory or be really good at patterns! You may not ever be able to speak, but talking is over-rated, anyway.

In a society where most people will read a headline on MSNBC and take it as gospel without doing any investigation of themselves, this is reckless, misleading and out-of-control.

Let me make something perfectly clear – autism is not a blessing! Okay? Children are blessings; their disability is not. And, if you think having to spend more of your childhood hours in therapy while sacrificing the ability to play soccer or dance is an advantage, you are sadly mistaken. If you think that a stellar memory and being able to see things visually better than the next 7-year old is cool, then you haven't seen one struggle with fitting in with cruel “typical” children because she is weird and doesn't understand social cues. Not being able to hear your son or daughter say I love you is heart-wrenching, not just a weakness. Watching your child writhe in pain and stim with anxiety is not a consolation because they excel at putting together puzzles.

Giving this “scientist” the benefit of the doubt, I will agree that you have to identify the strength of a child or adult with autism, change their environment to allow for these strengths to be capitalized. But, newsflash, we don't live in a bubble. Classrooms don't accommodate language delays and speaking devices – you have to go to “special” schools. Are you going to pay the 25,000 dollar tuition to make that happen, Dr. whats-your-face? Are you going to ask Corporate America to not call an adult with autism “retarded?” Are you trying to tell me that people will be more inclined to hire an autistic man because he can score better in non-verbal IQ tests? Pfst. You lost me when you said you no longer believe intellectual disability is intrinsic to autism. No DUH! And you call yourself a doctor? You scare me.

People with autism are not dumb, they aren't less - they are people. They have hearts, they have brains, they have life, they have feelings, they have wants, they have desires – but because of their DISABILITY they are challenged with how to convey, understand and act out on those INSTRINSIC behaviors. People with autism spend their lifetimes learning how to behave to fit within society. Dr. Ignorance - you are naïve and stupid if you think that society will – in this lifetime – ever learn to behave like autism.

Wake up, people! News is not about celebrities making poor life choices. It is not about random primates getting dental work, it is not about crooked politicians, it is not about saying that disability from injury is a gift.

It is about finding cures, it is about the truth, it is about discovering the sustainable health of our children, of the human race.


http://www.naturalnews.com/034038_vaccines_autism.html
http://www.foxnews.com/health/2011/11/03/autism-can-be-advantage-researcher-says/?test=latestnews

Things in front of you are larger than they appear.

You want to know what makes my butt twitch? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. When people look at me and say (referring to Isabella), “She doesn't look like she has autism.” I have tried to give people the benefit of the doubt – they aren't educated, so they don't know that disability doesn't have a “look.” I want to be diplomatic, but sometimes I just want to say, “You don't LOOK stupid, either!”

Here's the thing – chronic illness and disability don't have a type. That's often why it makes it so difficult for people to empathize with our situation. I have had people very close to me tell me that I play a victim in regards to Isabella's autism, implying that I feel sorry for myself (I guess). Besides being one of the most hurtful things you can say to a person who is raising a child with a a disability, it just isn't true.

Almost two years ago to the day, Isabella was diagnosed with mild, classic Autism and Sensory Processing Disorder. She is high-functioning, which means she has an average or better IQ and not mentally disabled, nor does she have a learning disability. Her diagnosis was no surprise – I had known it myself for about 3 months prior, we were just waiting for the official code – 299.0

I remember as if it were yesterday. It was just me and Isabella in the doctor's office – at that point she said very little and didn't respond to much, stared off into thin air. Her neurologist and I talked about her as if she were a cardboard cut-out; she did not engage in any conversation. It felt so casual on the outside, you know? He diagnoses kids frequently – heck, maybe even daily. On the inside, however, I was crumbling. I was fighting so hard to not sob in his office in front of her, not even fully understanding the breadth or extent of how drastically different life would be from that day forward. Isabella, me, and Nick - our whole family – we all became victims that day, not by choice, but random selection.

On that day, and certainly many to follow, I grieved the loss of the dreams I had for my first-born daughter. But, also on that day, I vowed to kick the shit out of autism and made a promise to Isabella that I would never let her down, that she wouldn't fall prey to this disorder. I never once laid down or gave up. I quit my job to home-school her, I put her in aggressive occupational, speech and language therapy, I changed hers and mine entire food diet, I put her on a sensory diet, I researched till the wee hours of the morning, I read tons of books, I changed her schedule, I rocked her, I held her, I gave my life to her – I did everything she did to feel the effects she felt, to understand her body better. She spent a year in a charter school to learn social and self-help skills. I have lost hundreds of hours of sleep, I have grown thousands of gray hairs and gained many stress wrinkles, but I have NEVER once played a victim.

Nick was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes just a few short months before Isabella was diagnosed. He doesn't look like a guy who has to give himself insulin shots four times a day. When he first was diagnosed, he was dangerously close to a diabetic coma. It took months to get his blood sugar under control and it takes careful monitoring and proper administration of insulin, impeccable control of diet, low stress levels, and regular exercise to keep it stable. If he strays from it just a bit, it will take days for him to recuperate. But, if you look at him, you wouldn't say he is fighting a chronic disease. You can't tell that he has scar tissue on his body from constantly having to inject himself, you can't see that he has lost feeling in his fingertips from checking his blood sugar. But, he DOES.

Just like Nick, Isabella is in treatment. With her treatment, she has improved – immensely. She doesn't look like she has autism. But, that is the point! We want her to get well. I don't want my child, nor does any other parent of a child with autism, rocking in a corner, flapping her arms for the sake of people being able to identify with you. And, don't think for a second that she hasn't, or will go back to stimming if her treatment isn't under control. With our experience and with our own education and dedication to her, we all have learned to cope. But, everyday we are challenged; every day she struggles.

So, when you say, “Golly, gee, Bethany. She doesn't look like she has autism. She's gonna be just fine,” its you implying that you don't believe me. And three years of challenge flashes before my eyes, and I just sit there, lip shaking, thinking “but, but...but, but....ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION!!!”

Instead, I smile and nod, and pray silently that you'll be right.

*Note: Since her diagnosis, Isabella has not taken a single dose of synthetic medication. Not one prescription, no over the counter drugs. She is detoxing all the pharmaceuticals and vaccine effects; she is recovering through dietary restrictions, high-dose vitamin supplementation, amino-acids, minerals, therapy and conditioning. The only thing she sees a doctor for is blood draws to monitor her metabolic panels, blood counts and electrolytes. I have prescribed every single thing she has done through education and research, and she has never been healthier. So go ahead and tell me I'm playing a victim. You obviously need a new dictionary.

Interrupting your mindset...

I took a long hiatus from watching the news. I mean, I take a peak at the local stuff – the weather, the traffic – but I have been trying to stay away from all the horror in the world. I can't stomach listening to stories about babies being beaten by their parents or children being sexually assaulted and it seems like that is all you hear about – that or celebrity divorces. So, I tried out the theory “ignorance is bliss” and I kept my TV on Disney channel and Nick Jr. for the past two months. Okay, so maybe I sneaked in some Bravo from time to time – but what episode of the Real Housewives won't make you feel better about yourself? Somehow, however, I got sucked back in and now I find myself internally enraged by the world that surrounds me.

Take Tattoo Barbie. The newest “doll” to hit the markets and currently the scapegoat for thousands of unaccountable parents, carrying the blame for their daughters growing up too fast. Really? I just can't get over this one. Let's break this down. Barbie is what, like 35? She has had a breast reduction, been in a 50-year uncommitted relationship with some dude named Ken and she drives a Corvette with no real job to speak of. I'm pretty sure the tattoo that she gets is not the decision that will cause the demise of girls' self-esteem across the globe. If you let your daughter play with a plastic middle-aged woman on a daily basis, you should consider yourself lucky that Barbie gets a tattoo – it might infuse some culture into them.

I'm pretty sure that these parents so upset by Mattel's latest release are probably the same ones who aren't even phased by real problems that might cause little girls to be disturbed, like having to choose between bikini, hipsters, boy shorts, or low-riding underwear for our newly potty-trained toddlers. Yes, that's right. You can not walk into Target, JC Penney, Gap – wherever – and just buy 2T plain white panties for your two-year old girl. Nope. It is like shopping at a mini Victoria's Secret – every undergarment marketed for lingerie models-in-training. Second-graders wear bras now and I wouldn't be surprised if they have matching thongs. This is ridiculous; this is sexualizing our youth.

Infant girls are wearing bikini's and tutu's and necklaces. Why don't you just hand them a Cosmo, too? 8-year old girls are touting Coach purses and 12-year old tweens are jamming out to Lady Gaga on their iPhones. Does this not carry any weight to why our girls have image issues or problems connecting with their parents? Do you think I am conservative? Do you think that I am too close-minded? Guess what? I have more than one tattoo.

Our society is so backwards. Breastfeeding is offensive, so let's all go eat at Hooters! Celebrate Gay Pride at a children's theme park, but don't you dare say a prayer before school. Limit your son's sugar intake, but inject your children with aluminum through vaccines. Occupy Wallstreet, but don't settle for a job at McDonald's. I just don't get it. Our world is one giant oxymoron.

NEWSFLASH PEOPLE – you are accountable for yourself. You are responsible for your children. Stop shifting the blame and start doing your part.

You may now resume your regular programming.   

Yes, I claim these kids.

My kids have been a wealth of comedy lately and I couldn't let the day go by without jotting some of this down and, of course, sharing them with the world – because that is how I do.

I will start with Maddie, whom I love to pieces, but this little kid is gross. And by gross I mean she picks her nose (she ignores my requests for her to stop), examines it, and then stuffs it back in her schnauz. Even worse, shoving her finger in her nose, examining it and the wiping it on the coffee table. She runs off to get a baby wipe, cleans it off gives it to me and says, “Eeeeewwwwww. Stink.” Ya think?

She and Bella were playing outside on the back porch, laying on the mini-trampoline, playing with toys. Maddie is lying on her stomach, head propped up in her hands and casually eating from the cat food bowl that sits underneath her chin. The OUTDOOR cat bowl. Gross. After she gets and earful from me, she proceeds to go over to a plant on the porch and begins eating the dirt out of the pot. What is wrong with this child?

But, she is just as cute as she is gross. Maddie is a climber, and for the 20^th time today I told her to stop climbing on the end table. On the last time, I finally tell her “Get down now!” In a little chipmunk voice I hear a calm “okay” and then she does a somersault onto the couch, looks at me and says, “Tada!” Such grace. ;)

Maddie has an Elmo chair that she will carry from room to room – it's her TV chair (just like Dad). Today she was jumping on it, per usual. Only this time she was a little too close to the sliding glass door and in a flash I hear a THUD and Maddie disappears behind a sea of plush yellow and rainbow, her head slamming into the glass. I am fully expecting to see some tears, but instead she pops up from behind the chair, looks at me with surprise and says, “I'm okay!” Okay, Pee Wee. I guess she meant to do that.

And, then there is Bella who is really starting to develop some sass. As I was giving Maddie a bath, I ask Bella to get me a clean washcloth. She looks over at the one in the bathtub – hers – and says, “Yeah, I think that one has poop on it.” What?!? Nasty.

And, these are my GIRLS. Oy Vey. I wonder what is in store for me when the little dude is up and walking around. I. Just. Can't. Wait.

One in Five Trillion - Roman's Birth Story

I break out in hives when I breastfeed. True story. I am allergic to nourishing my child. Tell me that doesn't suck. And, yes it really happens. Like one in five trillion women suffer from an allergic response to their own production of Oxytocin and Prolactin, the hormones responsible for milk let-down. I am that one woman in five trillion. As if breastfeeding a newborn when you have two other children isn't hard enough, I itch and turn red and splotchy. Joy. Strangely, I only became allergic to myself with my son, as nursing the girls did not require an epi-pen or Benadryl. It really should come as no surprise, really. This pregnancy, birth and now lactation have been the antithesis of my every plan for bearing my last child.

Nick and I weren't going to have any more children. Madison made us a family of four and left me with a separated pelvis. Although life in a wheelchair had its perks, I was much happier walking. But, then SURPRISE! I was preggo. Honestly, I looked at the pregnancy test like it was in Spanish. I had no idea if I was reading it right, like I hadn't taken two dozen of these tests before. I will never forget that phone call to Nick or the two weeks of crying afterward. Literally, I was devastated. My oldest child had just been diagnosed with autism, my 15-month old was still not sleeping through the night, I was homeschooling and just quit my job. How in the world would I have time and love for one more little body?

God must really think I am a good parent, or have a great sense of humor, to give me another kid. So, I accepted it and told myself this pregnancy was going to be vastly different from my previous two. Like, no smoking crack or horseback riding. Kidding. Actually, I was going to be as active as possible, take the right supplements, all organics, gluten-free, natural medication-free birth outside of a hospital, breastfeed until he was 10, yada, yada, yada. Other than feeling sick 24-7 for the first 14 weeks, things seemed to be going okay. My ass managed to stay the same size for most of the pregnancy and I did not try to break my Twinkie-eating record from my pregnancy with Isabella.

Shortly after I spent the 250 dollars on my hypnobirthing class to accompany my natural childbirth, I learned I had polyhydramnios. Translation – a boat load of amniotic fluid. And, I mean a lot. Like three times the normal preggers. At 38.5 weeks, I was the size of a woman carrying triplets. No lie. This led to numerous ultrasounds that revealed my son may or may not have intestinal issues. It also increased my risks of things going wrong at birth, like bleeding to death. Less than thrilling news. Because my son had his own jacuzzi, he constantly did flips in my belly and couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to go feet or head first. He apparently missed the memo that birthing feet first is NOT ideal. So, all things considered, I decided it would be best to be at a hospital with a doctor. UGH, I dreaded it.

I was in labor for 14 hours with the maximum amount of pitocin to move things along and had not an ounce of pain relief and no epidural. I was pretty amazed at how well I was managing my pain. Those nights going to sleep with hypotherapy CD's telling me that I was a strong woman and to will my child out of my vagina actually worked!!! When 2:30 am rolled around and my breathing partner, aka my husband, was snoring to my side and my water still hadn't broke nor had labor advanced, I realized that once again, things were not going to go as a I had planned. So, I asked for an epidural, if nothing more than to get some rest. Wouldn't you know that I was the one in five trillion women (again) where the anesthesiologist hit a blood vessel – not once, not twice, but four times!!! What the hell. Can't I get a break? I am also that one in five trillion women whose blood pressure gets lower when they are pregnant. So low that my epidural had to be administered in intervals so I wouldn't crash. But, two hours later....relief. I think I actually fell asleep.

8am. Still no progress. It is time to break my water. This is no small feat, as I have TONS of fluid, so it takes a team of four doctors to make this happen. Initially, it sounded like someone took a bucket of mop water and emptied it on the table. And, the doctor doing the deed was, for lack of a better term, sprayed with water. No lie. I saw it. The nurse said I easily lost 13 lbs (random) or fluid and it was the most she had ever seen. Sweet, I am record breaker! Let me guess, 1 in 5 trillion. Then they had to turn the baby inside. It took all four docs pushing and pulling. Let's just say the epidural was working and I was happy I made the impromptu decision to not go pain med-free.

Four hours later and it is time to push. One push, nothing. Two pushes, movement. Three pushes, stop. Nurse leaves the room, Nick has a strange look on his face. At least seven people come back in the room and docs and nurses are looking at my nether regions like they have never seen a woman give birth before. “Oh, wow!” and “That is not good” are phrases that are being said. My nurse says to the doctor, “Were done here, right?” What do you mean, “done?” I don't have a baby. We are far from done.

Done pushing is what she meant. Apparently, I am one in five trillion women who ruptures a blood vessel while pushing and I developed a massive hematoma in my crotch that needed to be surgically repaired to have the bleeding stopped. My nurse said she only heard of it in school. That was like 19 years ago. Saweet. My doctor calmly assures me that my epidural is apparently working well, because if it wasn't I would have been in a lot of pain from the explosion. Again, good decision I made at 2:30 in the morning.

So, off we go for a c-section. This is a far cry from my desire to have a non-medicated birth. Spinal in, sedatives take effect. I am terrified, by the way, and vaguely remember what happened in the rush to get me to the operating room. But, in short time my boy is born -all 10 pounds of him. Now it makes sense why I blew a valve. They put him on my chest, he opens his eyes and it is love at first sight. It is so amazing how you can be overcome with love that you never thought you had in a matter of seconds.

They sew me up, cut me open, sew me up, and ship me off to recovery. Wouldn't you know that I am the one in five trillion women where the spinal anesthesia wears off while in recovery and I am in the worst pain of my entire life. They have given me like seven shots of morphine and it does nothing. It is taking my breath away, literally. And, that dumb nurse keeps pressing on my stomach regardless of me begging, pleading with her to not touch me. What a stupid son of a ….

Dilautid. Morphine. Dilautid. Morphine. I am soooooooo out of it. But, my pain is finally manageable and I get to see my little boy. He has a natural white blond streak in his tons of hair – I think it is like one in five trillion kids that have it. And, he is just perfect. I get to see my girls and then I pass out.

I go home with my family two days later. I am swollen and sans the green color, I look like Shrek thanks to all the fluid that was shoved into my veins. Oh, did I mention I am in pain? We are home for one day when Roman starts puking green and brown. I remember the ultrasounds where I was told he may or may not have intestinal problems and I immediately think blockage, call the children's ER and they tell me bring him down there. He isn't peeing and pooping, and while normally I would be thrilled in the break from changing diapers, this is scary for a four-day old.

They start an upper GI series and we are given a consult with the surgeons for possible repair of his intestines if they are blocked. He is catheterized to extract urine, he is given a spinal tap where the hit a blood vessel not once, not twice, but four times! One in five trillion, and we have matching puncture wounds on our backs. He has an IV, he can't eat, he is admitted to the hospital. His kidney ultrasound reveals a duplex collecting system and hydronephrosis, whatever the hell that means. It is like 1 in 5 trillion. 4 days of antibiotics and a battery of tests later, we are discharged with no infection, no surgery and a clean bill of health. It is the day after Maddie's second birthday and my son is one week old.

All those plans I had to give my son the best start in life, the plans to have a calm birth, the plans for a healthy child – none of them mattered. I was that one in five trillion people who preferred to have a drug free birth and I ended up having the one in five trillion issues. I often joke that I am a sucker for Murphy's Law, and I think that this story lends some truth to that jest. But, all is well that ends well, and outside of some pending observational issues with Roman's kidney, he is healthy and we are adjusting as a walking circus. He pukes, he pees, he poops, he eats, he sleeps and he is perfect. And, even with this saga, I would do it five trillion more times if it meant the outcome was a perfect baby like him.