Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Shaken not stirred

Did I ever tell you all about the time I sent my son to school smelling like a martini? No?  My last post was really depressing.  I owe you a funny one. Let me fill you in.

The Kiddo was about three at the time.  It was a school morning and about twenty minutes before the bus was due to arrive.

Around this time with my son, he was pretty non verbal. No words at all. Lots of sounds and certain noises that we knew what he meant but no real functional conversation.  We still hadn't found medications that helped at this point.  He was beyond being always on the go.  This Kiddo was the Tasmanian Devil.  A whirling Dervish.  We weren't even using melatonin yet so I think you can understand the Zombie like state that my husband and I were in with our sleep deprivation.

Our house at the time was slowly being destroyed by him.  The lock down we had it on with gates and barricades was starting to fall apart.  He was getting too fast and too smart.  He was like an autistic ninja.

He was out of my sight for two minutes. I foolishly went to switch a load of wash to the dryer but that's all it took.  The Kiddo stormed past baby gate that blocked access to our bar.  Seriously, he took that thing down like The Berlin Wall.  Instead of dancing on top of it to the music of David Hasselhoff, he decided to investigate what was back there.  That's when I heard the crash of glass that made my blood turn cold.

I ran in there to see my sweet toddler boy surrounded by broken glass and a large puddle of Vermouth.


 I scanned for blood or injury and breath a sigh of relief that he's okay but then I take in the mess that is before me and you want to pass out with a drink but I can't because it's 7:50 something in the morning. Not to mention my Kiddo just killed the bottle of vermouth.

I snatched him up, stripped him down and gave him the quickest baby wipe bath ever.  I'm throwing on new clothes because god dammit I had been up since "dark thirty" and I knew the importance of the routine.  His Vermouth soaked ass was going on that bus.  The only thing I couldn't really clean up very well were his sneakers.  He only had the one pair and I blotted as best I could till the bus arrived.  Off he went smelling like the floor of James Bond convention.

I went to clean up the mess after he was gone certain that at any moment the police and child protective services would be knocking on the door.  I started wondering if I could learn to knit and make a poncho like Martha Steward had on when she was released from prison.  Would this be the day he could finally talk and tell his speech therapist that he really wanted some olives for snack time.  Even though vermouth only has about eighteen percent alcohol, does that mean my floor is now disinfected?

And yet, nothing happened.  Except me going out and buying a new pair of sneakers for the Kiddo and a replacement bottle of vermouth.  Looks like the higher power above decided to give me a free one that day.

Off to go put on my "good" yoga pants as I am sure some pearl clutching troll is now calling in for a welfare check after reading this.  Hey, did you really think we dropped fries only around here? As if! ;-)


  1. I think this is so funny...especially the James Bond reference. Love it!

  2. My son is 3 1/2 and the autistic ninja line is fitting. ��
    Thanks for the story. ��

  3. Love this! Best line: Off he went smelling like the floor of James Bond convention. LoL!