Today’s drawing assignment:

“Five cats are running for president of our house. Draw campaign posters for them.”

Jack’s poster:

Drawing of Sharky with red and blue writing that says, VOTE SHARKIE! followed by other printing that says, "You won't regret it! Not a lie, not a scam.

Seems legit.

Sam’s poster:

Picture of Ruby and some pyramids and lettering that says, "Ruby 2016 Vote Ruby for Dictator

This pretty much captures how Ruby would govern.

Quinn’s poster:

Drawing of a flag with a drawing of Oreo cat standing in front of it wearing a suit and featuring an orange combover. Text says, "vote Republicat Oreo Troomp. Make Ameowica great again."

Make Ameowica great again.

I wish I could take credit for this idea, but Jack came up with it. He and Quinn made some campaign commercials as well. Those poor cats.


Telling medical professionals that I am autistic is always really hard for me. Because I am so used to passing, it is something that not a lot of people would suspect about me and it is also something that some people downright disbelieve.

I started physical therapy for a running injury at the end of June and I was nervous about telling my physical therapist, but it seemed important to do so because the way I feel pain and sensation is directly related to my being autistic. I was super relieved when I told him and he said, “I wouldn’t have guessed that,” but then respectfully listened to my sensory perceptions. I was really happy.

Then that PT left for a different practice and I was transferred to a different PT and I was nervous all over again, but I told her and not only was she very respectful about it, she asked a lot of questions and seems to have kept it in mind in terms of her treatment.

Then I had an injury that required me to go see an orthopedist (or, as my sister likes to call them, an orthopod) and because I mostly wanted to (a) make sure I didn’t have a dire injury and (b) get a cortisone shot, I didn’t bother mentioning my autism because (1) it didn’t seem important and (2) I didn’t really want to dive into that particular minefield this morning, especially considering going to doctors is hard enough for a plethora of reasons.

But then he looked at my paperwork, which includes my place of employment and was all, “The Autistic Self Advocacy Network? I’ve never heard of them,” so I gave him my elevator speech about ASAN, including the information that I am autistic and he said…

“If you are autistic, you are very high functioning. I have a nephew who [does this negative thing and then these other negative things].”

*all the sads*

I don’t have a script to reply to that although I really should get one. If I’m autistic? Very high functioning with the implicit dismissal of my struggles and accommodations? A nephew whose frustrated actions are either this man’s vision of him or a conversational weapon to disprove me being autistic enough?


Fortunately that conversation was at the very end of the appointment because all of the emotions that hit me as I walked back to my car were crushing.

I was hurt by his flippant dismissal of me—really hurt.

I was upset that his reaction to my autism was to provide a counterpoint of “there are so many who are really affected.”

I was saddened that his nephew is having a hard time.

I resented the power differential that forces me to be deferential regarding my own lived experience with him because he is in charge of my medical care.

This isn’t the first time this has happened to me. I hear this type of response all. the. time. This isn’t even the first time this has happened to me with a medical professional in the two and half years I’ve worked for ASAN. And I don’t go to doctors all that often.

To be clear, I know that there are many autistic people with many more support needs than me. I absolutely understand that I don’t understand fully what they are going through. I also know that I have a lot of things in common with them that may not be apparent to people who don’t know me well.

I just hate being so dismissed from my very real experience of autism because a doctor who has spent ten minutes with me has a different vision.

I walk through this minefield all the time.

Every time I tell someone I’m autistic I wait to see whether I will get hit with shrapnel. I have been lucky with a lot of people—and with the most important people, but that doesn’t make the explosion hurt any less when it does happen. Even small landmines are landmines.

WaaahunghblechWORST :)

I have all the depression about my running injury. I had been working hard in physical therapy and was slowly bringing my running up to a level where I was starting to do the long runs necessary to run my 20-mile race next month.


Suddenly I have this sharp pain like someone is jabbing me in the upper hip every time my heel strikes the ground when I run. Literally nothing else I do creates that delightful jabbing, stabbing sensation—just the one thing I want to do.

I am super agitated about the whole thing.

I am continuing with PT and seeing my orthopedist on Tuesday. I’m hoping he’ll give me a cortisone shot—and, yes, I know that pain signifies something wrong and blah, blah, blah, but I just want the stabbing jabbing to cease so I can fucking run again and I am hoping that the doctor agrees with me that a big ol’ shot to the hip is the way to go.

So. I’m writing this not to get sympathy and not to make excuses and most certainly not to get advice. I am writing it because every time I think about it (read: every time I take a step, ow, ow, ow) I get sad and even more depressed.

I decided that my kids should bear the responsibility for lifting me out of my doldrums, so when I left for work today, I gave them their drawing assignment: “Something happy. Draw good.”

I’m pleased to report that they did, in fact, draw good, and in case you are in your own personal small emotional divot, I would like to share them for you.

Jack went the obvious route and drew “The King of Happy.”

A drawing of a green hill with a blue sky and a sun. Behind the hill is an orange ball with spiky hair and a kinda manaical smile.

I really enjoy the inside of Jack’s brain.

Quinn drew—as he almost always does—his cat, Oreo, but this time he made Oreo play Pokemon Go.

Drawing of green grass and a blue sky with his cat Oreo drawn in pencil and holding a rectangle that says "Pokemon Go."

Cats and Pokemon make me happy too.

Sam went simple, but lovely.

Drawing of concentric hearts in rainbow colors.

I asked Sam what his picture was about and he said, “Love.”

Love makes me happy too, Sam.

So, yeah, I’m still bummed out, but I have a plan and, more importantly, I have three kids who help me keep my eye on the happy things.


It’s been a little bit of a frustrating weekend. Our refrigerator is beeping for no discernible reason. I can’t get some of the photos from my phone to upload to my computer no matter what I do. My running injuries that have been getting so much better have resurfaced. No one in my family will watch the Olympics with me. I can’t get my two white cats to pose together nicely for a photo regardless of how many cans of cat food I hold above my head.

Really, I have no shortage of frustrations.

(Mostly it’s the running injury thing. I am more depressed about that than I can properly express, but I can’t go into that right now. I just can’t.)

Anywho, what with avalanche of tiny slights that has enveloped me this weekend, I made an effort to balance it out by having fun with these hooligans:

Photo of my three kids sitting on a pipe in a green setting.

I am always trying to get a perfect photo of all three of them. I don’t think this qualifies as perfect, but it’s happy and that might be better.

Team Stimey went blackberry picking today because I wanted to eat blackberry crisp. (Well, I wanted to run 14 miles and then eat blackberry crisp, but things don’t always go as we hope.)

Four photos: 1. Jack and Alex picking berries 2. Quinn holding out a handful of berries 3. Sam leaning on a fence 4. a bucket of blackberries.

The great thing is that just about half of my family won’t eat blackberries, so five people pick and two and a half people eat.*

* Quinn is the half person. He kept talking about how delicious the blackberries were and how he’d forgotten that he liked them, but I was so busy picking berries that I didn’t see what Alex did, which is that Quinn kept putting them in his mouth and spitting them out. I think he was confused by sweet and tart.

It turns out that the farm where we picked our berries also had a pick-your-own-potato section and, bizarrely, picking his own potatoes is something Quinn has really been wanting to do. What a happy cowinkydink!

We followed the signs from the blackberry fields to the potato fields until we knew we were in the right place because we came across this adorable little sign indicating that—

Photo of a sign. It is a painting of a potato with arms and a face. It is holding a potato peeler in one hand and peeling a chunk off of its forehead. It's grim.


Leaving the grim cartoon sign behind us, Quinn and Alex headed out into the tuber fields to dig themselves some taters.

Four photos: 1. Alex holding a shovel and Quinn squatting down holding a potato 2. Alex and Quinn both squatting and inspecting potatoes 3. Quinn using a shovel to dig 4. Quinn holding a potato and the plant from whence it had come.

Shortly after I took that photo in the upper right, Quinn took a bite out of a raw, dirty potato. As with the blackberries, he spit it out.

I’m still frustrated about my refrigerator, etc., but outings with my family go a long way in making things better. Especially when they end with blackberry crisp and ice cream.

Photo of the blackberry crisp I made today and the ice cream I served it with.

I’m going to eat it for breakfast tomorrow too.

Hair, Long Beautiful Hair (Shining, Gleaming, Streaming, Flaxen, Waxen)

Alternative title: A Tutorial on Dyeing Hair Green to Blue Ombre by the Best Hair Stylist in the Entire World—ME.

Sam is very big into his hair these days.

I find this to be reasonable because his hair is very beautiful. It’s thick and slightly wavy and it’s grown past his shoulders by now.

He’s been coloring it for slightly more than a year now. I’m totally cool with that because, what? Is he going to be fired for having funky hair? No. There is no better time for him to experiment wildly with his appearance.

The only problem I have with his doing things to his hair is that *I* am the one who has to do it. Unfortunately for Sam, I never colored my own hair, so I’m doing all my learning on him. It’s been quite a thing. I assume that I am not the only mom with this problem so I have decided to assemble a tutorial on dyeing hair ombre and really fucking nailing it.

1. Gain experience.

I’ve been working up to this ombre for a long time. Sam’s first foray into hair color was simply an aqua streak. At that point, his hair was light enough that we were able to do it without bleach. Over the next few months, we added other colors, with varying degrees of success. All was well. I was starting to feel comfortable with my dying prowess.

2. Become complacent.

Then, at some point during the last school year, Sam decided he wanted to dye his hair black. That turned out to be not too hard. I bought a box of L’Oreal hair dye at the grocery store and voila! Easy peasy!

3. Assign all the thinking and planning to your offspring.

The big problem with dying hair black is that then it is difficult to do anything else with it.

Sam figured out from watching YouTube videos that something you can do to black hair is add vibrant red to it. I was nervous because it seemed like going from black to red would involve bleach and I didn’t want to wreck his hair. Sam assured me we could use color remover or some such miraculous modern invention followed by the red, so that’s what we did. He ended up with a kind of subtle red over black that actually looked pretty cool.

So far so good. I hadn’t done anything to destroy my sweet boy, his hair, or his ability to live hatless in the world.

4. Demand detailed plans of your child’s proposed two-toned hair style.

Drawing of a white face with red lips, blue eyes and long hair, green on top and blue on the bottom.

I asked Sam to draw a picture of how he wanted his hair to look and this was what he came up with. The original drawing is, like, a half-inch square.

5. Come to terms with the fact that this? This is going to require bleach.


6. Bleach the fuck out of your kid’s hair.

Photo of Sam with his hair clumped in clips on his head with me making a goofy face in the background.

Bring it.

I bought a giant tub of powdered bleach, a ton of developer, set aside my day off of work, and we set to it. I gotta tell you, a tub of bleach is not the thing you want to be dealing with at 9:30 in the morning…until noon. It took a long time. We bleached it in quarters and Sam has a LOT of hair.

7. Discover your results.

I knew the roots were going to be lighter, but I wasn’t prepared for the rest of it to turn out sixteen different colors.

Photo of Sam with wet hair of varying shades ranging from light blond to brown to red.

I took this photo so Sam could show Quinn that he had been blond for at least a couple of hours.

8. Ask Facebook what it thinks.

I thought Sam’s hair was kinda cool but then the internet informed me that green wouldn’t go well over our uneven and half-assed bleach job.The internet suggested either more bleach or using a different, darker color that would mix better with the reds and browns we’d ended up with.

9. Ignore Facebook’s advice.

We considered bleaching it more, but we were worried about doing a lot of damage to his hair. Sam seemed to think that it was light enough and he wanted to go ahead and dye the top green and the tips blue, so we threw caution to the wind and that is what we did.

Because what the fuck could possibly go wrong? We’re Team Stimey. This is how we motherfucking roll.

10. Pro-fucking-ceed with confidence.

Bonus points if you use unnecessary but hilarious foil wraps.

Photo of Sam with tin foil wraps all over his head. I am behind him with a concerned look on my face.

See the confidence?

Sam in profile waving. The front of his hair is covered in green dye and the bottom is covered in tinfoil wraps.

I think he looks a lot like Medusa here.

Photo of Sam's head. All you can see are tinfoil wraps spotted with mostly blue but some green dye.

He’s in there somewhere, I swear.


11. Bond with your victim—I mean, client.

I have to tell you, spending my entire day dyeing Sam’s hair wasn’t my first choice of what to do with my day off, but when you have your teenager pretty much trapped within arm’s reach of you for a whole day, you get some pretty serious bonding time. Silver linings, people.

12. Freak out that you made the wrong decision.

When I finally got all of the tinfoil out and rinsed his hair, I got worried because the green wasn’t showing up that much. I knew I wouldn’t really be able to tell what the final color would be until it was dry, but it was starting to look like the blue was showing up well and the green was nonexistent.

I told Sam that I was worried and then he got worried and then we circled and fretted and I worried some more and he was all, “Mooommm, stop stressing out about this because now I’m stressed about it,” so then I was stressed out about it but very quietly stressed out about it and then we acknowledged aloud that we were both stressed and I offered as an option making the whole thing blue because we had extra blue and that color was showing up very brightly.

I also thought it would be soooooo much easier to just do the whole thing one color.

13. Make a sudden, radical change to your plans.

Photo of the back of Sam's head. It is liberally coated in blue dye.

I was right. It WAS easier.

We rinsed, Sam showered, we valiantly tried to remove blue dye from everything in my house. I told Sam to put a towel on his pillow and sent him to bed.

14. See a glimmer of hope.

But then he showed up about a half hour later and there was visible green and a little patch of yellow and suddenly it looked like it might not be just blue after all.

15. *sounds of angels singing*

The next morning, I wandered downstairs before work only to be confronted by this:

Photo of Sam laughing in the sun. His hair is ombre: green on top, blue on bottom, with an even transition between.

I completely by accident bumbled into giving Sam a gorgeous ombre dye job.


Like for reals, guys. If I’d TRIED to do this, I couldn’t have. I wasn’t even trying to make it ombre.

16. Accept kudos.

I spent that day with Sam and I have to tell you, he got a LOT of compliments. And every compliment he got was like a delightful little pat on the back for me. I have never been so happy as when the hip-looking young woman behind the counter at the place we got lunch referred to his hair as “tight.” I’m thinking of having that engraved on my tombstone.

Photo collage of eight photos of Sam's hair surrounding his drawing of his hair.

I couldn’t stop taking photos because no photo I took was able to capture how truly gorgeous it turned out.

It’s not perfect, but it is so, so pretty and I did it completely by accident.

17. Pretend that your kid isn’t constantly, vaguely smurf colored.

Blue just kept showing up on Sam’s face and his neck and his hands and then he’d wash it off and it would just come back. We’re about five days out from Dye Day and I think he’s finally not turning blue anymore.

18. Acknowledge that you have no advice to offer anyone.

Sorry, guys. I lied. This whole tutorial was just an excuse to show you what I did. All I know is that Sam’s hair is even better than what he’d hoped and he loves it so much and he loves me for doing it for him and nothing I ever do will be this good again. Happy sigh.

Standard Transition Home Post

Team Stimey has arrived back home from vacation. Well, actually, we got back last weekend, but I’ve been a little discombobulated what with reentry to life and all, so I haven’t had a chance to write yet.

Two photos (1) Alex pushing a hotel luggage cart packed full of bags, pillows, sweatshirts, and backpacks (2) Jack carrying two empty soda cups and Quinn carrying his stuffed cat.

Checking out on our final day of vacation. I like this juxtaposition of what Alex had to drag to the car and what the younger children dragged to the car. Me, I carried my camera.

I have so many things to say about our vacation, but you know me and you know that it will take me some significant time to get a post together about it. That said, it’s always kind of weird to just transition from Vacation Posts to Home Posts without a transitional We Got Home Post, so this is that.

Our Wisconsin trip was really as close to perfect as you can get. We had lots of time to relax, but found enough fun things to do to keep us busy. We had enough cellphone reception and occasional wifi to keep us connected, but not enough to keep us from spending our evenings reading and at campfires.

It was warm enough to swim every day and not rainy enough to keep us from doing things, but it wasn’t this HOLY HELL WHAT TEMPERATURE IS THIS?! that Washington, DC evidently suffered through at the same time. We had plenty of family time and togetherness and bonding, but our kids are old enough that we didn’t have to spend every second on top of them.

We really couldn’t have asked for anything better. I mean, except for the fact that Alex started an affair with a cartoon on this trip.

Two photos: (1) Pokemon Go camera shot of Alex in bed with his arm around Pidgey (2) Pokemon Go camera shot of Alex at a bar with a margarita and Pidgey with a daiquiri

Every time I turned around, that fucking Pidgey was there.

The great thing about arriving home to Casa Stimey is that there were so many welcoming faces there to greet us. On our way home we picked up Ruby the cat at her boarding facility for furious felines and then drove home to hug our less angry cats there. There is also one remaining gerbil that I’d stashed at a friend’s house because I didn’t want him to die on my house sitter’s watch. I figured my friend was more emotionally prepared to deal with the death of an elderly gerbil, so I saddled her with that responsibility.

Photo of a white gerbil lying on his side looking dead.

He survived, although you wouldn’t know it from this photo.

Thanks to all of you for following along on my Facebook page. It was really fun to share our vacation with you. I fully understand how lucky I am to be able to take such a cool vacation with such a kickass family and I appreciate you sort of coming along with us.

Reason No. 86 You’re Glad I’m Not Your Mom

Sam is super into music and he is also a teenager, which means that no matter how nice his mom is, she will never be not embarrassing to him when she’s asking, “Now this band is emo…tional and that band is pop…ular punk?”

Unfortunately, when you are 14, you are not old enough to drive yourself off to a concert by yourself and you probably don’t have your own Uber account, so sometimes your mom has to go with you to the concert.

Much to her delight.

Screeshot of a facebook status with a photo: I am the greatest mom in the world. I am at a fucking Blink 182 concert with my kid. The price: I am embarrassing the shit out of him. Image: Sam and I in front of the Marcus Amphitheater. I have a huge smile on my face and am making the biggest thumbs up sign in the world. Sam looks like he'd kill me with his eyes if he could.

He looks so saaaaaaad.

Blink-182 was playing near where we are staying right now in Wisconsin and their opening band is All Time Low, which is one of Sam’s favorites. Because Alex and I are awesome and how can you say no to that face above, we agreed to take him.

Sam decided I should take him to the concert instead of his father because Alex had taken him to a few concerts before.

Rookie mistake.

I kid. I was very well behaved. I mean, I thought I was well behaved. You’d think I was killing Sam in asking him to pose for a photo in front of the stage. Everyone else was taking selfies of themselves in front of the stage but I had to ambush Sam into a photo, which honestly, seems more embarrassing to me, but whatever.

Photo of Sam taken at close range in front of a stage.

We had great fucking seats. This kid is lucky is parents are so cool.

The concert was actually really fun. I tried to be unobtrusive and not too mom-like. When All Time Low was on, there were enough empty seats that I could remain sitting and still see, so I was able to stay off Sam’s radar that way.

I knew most of the songs from Sam’s incessant playing of them and the band was clever and entertaining. One of the bandmembers has a thing where he collects bras from the crowd on his mic stand and I think Sam thought I was going to be all feministly outraged and stand up with my indignant finger raised and pontificate on the objectification of women. But I didn’t. Much to Sam’s relief.

The band insisted that people sit on each others’ shoulders and they encouraged crowd surfing and of course the crowd obliged but security was having NONE OF IT. It was delightful.

Or totally rock star cool, which is what I think Sam would call it. And he is probably right.

Our seats were in the exact center of our row, which was awesome for watching the band, but less awesome for leaving your seats at set break for water or the bathroom so we remained where we were. I tricked Sam into taking a photo with me.

Selfie from below. I have a goofy grin. Sam looks serious.

Gawd, Mooooommmm.

If that photo makes it look like he didn’t know there was a camera there and I caught him unawares when he looked up from the book he was reading on his phone, then the photo is accurately conveying reality.

While Sam read and ignored me, I passed the time by making fun of him on Facebook. Then he would read what I wrote and the comments people made and he would sneer dismissively and then I would make more jokes on Facebook and the vicious cycle continued.

Then the next act came on. Blink-182 was good as well. Plus they made me feel better because if they were there, I wasn’t the oldest person in the stadium by a decade. I remembered some of their songs from my own youth, such as it was.

I did have to stand though, which was a bummer because I am old and infirm and get tired easily. I texted Alex that I was tired of standing and he responded with a YouTube clip of Nelson from the Simpsons saying, “Ha, ha!”

All things considered, I was really happy to be able to go with Sam. People always said that you only have so much time when your kids want to spend time with you so take advantage of it. I’m starting to realize how true that is. Soon he won’t need a parent to take him to shows and soon he probably won’t want a parent to take him to shows, so I will take advantage of these moments while I can.

Then, in a couple of years when I ask him if I can go to a concert with him and he rolls his eyes and tells me absolutely not, I can look back on this Blink-182 concert and remember the exact moment I made him never want to go to a concert with me again.