I used to be such a good blogger …

… but a full-time job with kids home at summer has put a serious damper on my style. I mean, kids need attention every day. EVERY DAY. Can you even believe it?

To answer the last blog’s question of “Would you tell a camp counselor if your kid had TS?” I did indeed tell the camp director. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even twitch — and not because she doesn’t have TS. She simply didn’t react because, apparently, I’m not the only mom in the world who has a child with special needs.

I was immediately put at ease, especially with her closing statement. “I am glad you said something because if some kid acted poorly toward him, I’d want to know that he could advocate for himself or talk to his counselor,” she said, all the while sorting through our enrollment papers.”

“My son not only advocates for his tics, he also advocates for seconds on popsicles, extra pool time and extra room on stage to take his final bow,” I said.

She smiled, “He’ll have to join in line behind the other boys,” she said. “This is a public park n’ rec. That kind of behavior is par for the course.”

One week later, my son came home in tears.

“Oh, no,” I said, pulling him into my arms. “What’s got you so upset?”

“I don’t know,” he sniffled, resting his bear paws on my knee and snuggling close. “Well, I guess I do. But I just don’t want to say.”

He’d been lightly hiccupping all week, likely due to chlorine overload. I was ready for his tale of woes about the kid at the snack bar who asked him to keep his noises to himself.

“Did some kid tease you?” I asked?

He immediately bristled and pulled away. “No! What would they do that?”

“Stupid me!” I wanted to respond. Instead I went with, “Then what’s the problem?”

“Well, you’re working so hard, and it costs money to go, so I feel bad saying this, but…” he burst into tears. “I’m not a fan of the great outdoors! Oh, Mama, I am a fan of the great indoors!”

I stifled my laughter, gave him a huge, promised him we’d turn on the air condition and watch TV the following week while his sister sweated her ass off with the other campers. Problem solved.

Here are a few images of what Stink considers to be ideal activity. Thank God he’s estimated to be SIX FOOT NINE. No joke. If not, he’d be bigger than a Whale at McDonalds.

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