About A Son

My son is named Kyle. We both share the same middle name of Benjamin. There is nobody in either side of our family who has the name Kyle. Nothing against “Kyle” but it wasn’t my first pick. The late, great George Carlin has a bit where he mentions that name. My wife and I were reading through a book of baby names, and there came a kick when we got to the name Kyle. It’s only as I type this that I realize maybe the kick was his way of saying “No! Anything but that name! ”

Sorry son.

The pregnancy itself is a bit of a blur, but I don’t recall anything out of the ordinary for the most part. Of course, when it’s the first time your wife is pregnant I suppose EVERY-FUCKING-THING seems out of the ordinary, but I digress. Kyle did have what appeared to be a cyst on his brain, but that went away on it’s own. Whether or not it had any effect after the fact…I think about that sometimes more than I probably should.

He was born. Through my wife’s vagina, not stomach. Not sure what it says about me, but the smell of him being born sums up the entire pregnancy/delivery for me. I have friends who are about to become first time dads, and I find myself excitedly asking them to make sure to get a whiff of what’s happening. Most seem to think that’s an odd thing to focus on, and I do agree. My mind seems to be wired in a way that is not…normal? Practical?  I guess I’m just curious if it only meant something to me, or if others have had a similar experience.

I also distinctly remember looking into the grand canyon that was now my wife and remarking “I see the head I think! It looks like one of those turnips from Mario 2!” If you don’t get the reference, I highly suggest playing a few games of Mario 2 for the Nintendo to refresh yourself, then knocking up your significant other and searching for the turnip head in hear gaping womb.

By the way, childbirth is really amazing and all, but so is Mario 2. One of those doesn’t seem to often get the credit it deserves.

Suddenly they placed what looked to be a plunger onto the top of the turnip, and with the smallest pull, there was a baby boy. Very fast. Very quick. Turnip head turns to baby in what felt like a snap of the fingers, if not quicker.

I don’t cry much. “Much” might as well be “at all.” Music can move me to tears, but that’s a little more rare an occurence than it used to be. It used to be pretty bad actually, but that’s another story in itself. When my son was born, it was the first, and I’d bet last, time where I lost complete control of my emotions. If I do cry, I can cut it off. I wouldn’t be surprised if in later years the official saying goes from “cool as a cucumber” to “cool as a Robert Ormsby.” But when I saw that baby, I lost it.

I am not accustomed to losing it. I prefer to keep it. As in “keep it together.” You know, the strong, silent type. Though there is a strange pleasure in just letting emotion completely take over. Of course, I couldn’t help it. I became this big, handsome, blubbering mess of a mess. And I couldn’t stop it.

Didn’t even get to cut the umbelical cord. They offered me the scissors, but I was in total bitch-meltdown mode. Shaking, crying, trying to articulate what is apparently impossible to articulate. Should old age eventually shake the memories out of my head, I hope she’s kind enough to at least let me keep that one.

My son is almost 4 years old, so if I were to detail the last few years in ye old blog, it would take a little while. As I mentioned before, Kyle is on the Autism spectrum, and with the numbers being what they are (My GOD! 1 in 88?!?) I want to spend a bit of time on how we got there, and what we’ve done since then.

So Killer Kyle gets a two-parter of a blog entry.

I can’t very well tell you about HOW my kids are driving my crazy without letting you know a bit about the crazy kids themselves no?

And on a seriousness note, I hope that once we start dealing with the Autism part of it all, maybe some other parents will find something beneficial in it for themselves. With those kind of numbers, trust me, you are nowhere NEAR alone.

Like the blog? Follow it. Like the author? Follow him. Well…maybe not. At least not literally. That could get really creepy, really quickly. But feel free to hit me on Facebook, E-mail, snail mail, whatever the case may be…

Word to Mario and them…

Super Mario Bros. 2

Super Mario Bros. 2 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Origin Story…

Hello. I assume you are able to read the English language, and that is why you are here. You may have stumbled onto this blog, and not being able to read the English language, you’re hoping to just stare at the pretty pictures.

Either way…

My name is Robert Ormsby. Best of luck trying to pronounce that last name. I am a caucasian male of 30 (soon-to-be 31) years old. I am a Gemini. I have a larger than average penis size. This may or may not be important information.

I am married. She is pretty, and I’m particularly fond of her buttocks. She is a Gypsy. No she doesn’t read palms. Yes she is superstitious. Again, this may or may not be important information.

I have 2 kids. They are definitely mine. I never felt the need to go on a daytime talkshow and have it verified. They look like me, and as they get older, I see ways in which they act like me. I also see ways in which they act like rabid animals, but I suppose that comes later. That is probably the important part of all this.

This blog is about them. I guess it’s about a lot of things, but just like the rest of my life, the kids are at the center of it all.

I was laid-off from my job almost a year ago. I worked a lot of hours for decent pay. I lived in the state of Connecticut which is located along the east coast of The United States of America. I would put in a link for a map, but I do not yet possess the technical prowess to do this.

Once laid off, I decided I wanted to check out South Carolina, which I had always heard good things about. Better weather, nicer people, and the cost of living would be more conducive to raising a family. My wife and I took a trip to check it out. We liked it. We moved there.

My wife found work, and we decided that it would be best if I could stay home with the kids for a little while. I could take care of them and still bring in a considerable income in the form of unemployment benefits. And like many stories you’ve heard, a lot of this has to do with “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

My kids are beautiful, inside and out. I know ALL kids are beautiful, but there are some ugly LOOKING kids out there. I also know that in your mind, your kid is beautiful looking. Not so. You are biased. Not all of you, but some of you have ugly looking kids. Not that there is anything wrong with that, because again, all kids are beautiful. It’s just mine may be a little more beautiful.

My kids are fun, and they’re funny. They’re smart. They’re good company as far as kids go. I wouldn’t want to go hang out with them at a bar or anything like that, but they’re pleasant enough.

My son is almost 4 years old and has been diagnosed as being on the Autism spectrum. The spectrum itself is a bit like the Twilight Zone. It’s hard to explain, but I will try further down the proverbial road.

My daughter is one-and-a-half years old. She is slightly overweight. She has curly hair. People seem to like her for whatever reason. That might sound harsh, so let me clarify. I like her. She’s my daughter. Not sure why people who are not the father would like her. I’m guessing her chunkiness is a big (pun not intended) part of it all. Strange though… she’s a fat baby, and people adore her. If she was a fat teenager all that goodwill would go right out the window.

It is the hardest job of my life. No vacation days, no time off. No 401k, no profit-sharing, no dental or vision. No respect. Word to Rodney Dangerfield. I seldom get a smoke break. Never a lunch break. They spilled pudding on the carpet today, and I scooped it up with my trembling hands to eat it. Because that’s the quickest way to clean it up. That may sound funny. In a way I suppose it is. It might sound horrifying. In a way I suppose it is. It may sound like I exaggerated or I made it up for a laugh.

No. It really happened. I ate pudding off the carpet because I knew that by the time I found the appropriate rag to clean it up, they would then have pudding in or around every orrifice of their bodies. Plus I was feeling slightly hungry. It just seemed best for everyone involved.

Parenting is also unlike any other job, because the pay greatly fluctuates. Sometimes they laugh at you or say something like “I love you” and all the hard work feels very much worth it. Sometimes I try to give my daughter her favorite juice, and for some reason she screams “Nooooooo” and collapses on the floor crying and screaming.

Jesus Christ lady, I was just trying to give you some juice. Sorry you’re too young for champagne.

In other words the rewards are sometimes large, sometimes not so much. I often think about all the hard work that goes in to these days and nights, just so they can become teenagers and inevitably grow to not want to see us/hear us/be around us.

Some pay-off huh?

Although in my more optimistic moments, I suppose the payoff is when they hit their late twenties or so, if I’m not a shitty Dad, they’ll come back to me and actually enjoy my company. All kids I think grow away from their parents. Not all of them come back.

Why a blog? I guess I’m able to document these times and in the future when my memory has failed me, I can look back on it all. Assuming I can remember my log-in and password. I think any other stay-at-home dads need to know, YOU’RE NOT ALONE. Maybe a shitty parent might read some of this and look more fondly upon their own child. I’m a Gemini, so I feel an almost physical urge to CREATE. Write a song, or a story, or…something.

This constitutes as something no?

I think a large part of it is just to keep what’s left of my fragile sanity and receding hairline. It beats watching their stupid shows, (although I love me some Yo Gabba Gabba) and since they generally use the television, playstation, radio, and Ipod all at once, it’s really all I CAN do. I used to post some pieces of my day on Facebook, and most people seemed to get a laugh out of my pain and anguish. My cousin suggested if I was looking to do something creative with my time, why not write something about my adventures with the kids.

Why not?

So there it is. Come read about the freak show if you like.

One of us…one of us…

Much like everything outside of parenting, I’m kind of making it up as I go along. Why do something all the way only half-way good, when I can do a GREAT job at half-assing it? I might publish once a week. I might publish never again. I might get signed to some sort of lucrative book deal and make mo money, mo money, mo money.

Either way…

Feel free to throw in your thoughts/opinions/strange sexual fetishes. Maybe you have some stories of your own? I don’t really care about YOUR stories, but someone might should you feel the need to share.

I’m on Facebook. Where all the cool kids hang out. Ask around, see if they ain’t heard about me.

See you when I see you next…

 

Rob