Self-Made Millionaire. Almost.

There was the year of "The Carnival."

I was nine years old and living in an apartment complex in North Orange County. The place was super saturated with kids and there was never any shortage of friends. We didn't need formally arranged playdates; we just rushed outside each day and met in the stuccoed halls where the laundry rooms were, or in the black tarred alleys where our skateboards and rollerskates would glide over the smooth surface. It was the ice cream man's paradise. Our neighborhood surely provided him with enough sales each day to live a life of luxury.

And I wanted a piece of that pie. So the wheels began to turn and soon I came up with a way to fill our summer days with fun and my pockets with big shiny quarters. I was the child of immigrant parents after all, and we came to this country for a better life. It was my turn to taste the American Dream.

I began to put my plan into motion. I secured a large section of lawn and began to strategically build my summer "Carnival." There was a dilapitated pool, filled partially with water and partially with the leaves from the tree it was placed under. I had a balance beam, and hula hoops. There were jump ropes and obstacle courses. Baton twirling lessons. A boom box playing Whitney Houston. Roller skating races. It was, by all accounts and purposes....my first small business and I was making some serious cash. Kids were flocking to my homemade spectacle by the dozens and I was on my way to a Kmart Shopping Spree. Until someone's dad showed up and complained that I was "stealing" money from the children and demanded a refund. I was shut down before lunchtime and my dream was shattered. But something inside of me had been awakened and an Entreupenur was born.

My next endeavor was selling homemade purses at school. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. VanDyke, had a huge cabinet filled with construction paper and I had a huge backpack to put it all in. I lugged my loot home each day, and after scribbling through homework (who needed school when I was going to make millions soon) I began to construct purses in various sizes and hues. I made tiny notebooks and borrowed pens from my parents' junk drawer, and since I had no overhead, I was looking at a 100% profit margin. I sold my goods at Morse Elementary School black-market-style; there was no doubt that I was the product of a communist country. My business blossomed quickly and soon I was considering the prospect of hiring some help; until Mrs. VanDyke caught on to my underground operation when she went looking for pink construction paper and found only sad little sheets of yellow and brown (who wants a yellow and brown purse, anyway?). I was subsequently shut down.

My spirit would not be shaken though, and by sixth grade I was back in the game, in a new neighborhood, with new friends. I convinced them to begin a resteraunt with me, and we named it "Kid's Diner." We spent afternoons working on the menu, and the logo, and we even planned for live entertainment, choreographing dances to our beloved Paula Abdul's greatest hits. My mom worked for Hunt Wesson at the time, and our garage was stocked full of pudding and popcorn and sloppy joe sauce. Again, very little overhead. We raised money through club dues and solicited our business through colorful fliers made on my girlfriend's tiny Mac computer. We used bubble font and felt powerful and industrious. Our operating hours were "after mom and dad leave for work until mom and dad come home." Opening day finally arrived and our customers showed up and began to order from the menu. Steak? We're out. Hamburgers? Not today. Fries? That's tomorrow's special. A sad little wilted chef salad and five dollars later and we were high fiving all the way to the bank. Until a parent called and complained that we were "ripping off" her kids and demanded the five dollars back. Again, my hopes and dreams were dashed by "the man." Or the woman in this case.

So of course, as an adult, I feel that had I not been bulldozed by overconcerned citizens, parents, and teachers, I could be a rather wealthy businesswoman by now. Living the high life. Taking shiny quarters from customers in exchange for....something. I could have been the next Wild Rivers, or Louis Vuitton, or....Chuck E. Cheese.

Which brings me to my next point. I have this great idea for a line of vending machines for pregnant ladies and their pets.

Come on. Whose with me?

Camping's Not for Sissies.....or for People Who Like to Bathe

I have to admit.

Sometimes, going somewhere with a special needs child, well, it can be a pain in the keister.

I'm probably not supposed to say that. I'm probably supposed to just go on being a beacon of inspiration for other parents of children with Autism by displaying unwavering strength, stamina, and patience.

But that would be a load of doodie.

Because it is hard sometimes.

Most of the time.

I don't whine very often around here, but when I do, you know it's for a good cause. Mainly to make myself feel better.


Our family prides itself on trying to exist within the most possible realm of "normalcy" we can. We go to the beach, we go bowling, we've taken an intercontinental vacation......and in ten days, we will go to the Sierras and go camping for a week.

And I am scared out of my mind.

Not of actually camping. My first trip was in the comfort of my mother's womb and I was hooked. The tent isn't nearly as cozy, but we make do.

Nope. I am terrified of Monchichi and his growing height and speed and desire to explore the world at his whim. I can no longer strap him into the carseat and place him a safe distance away from the campfire. I can no longer rely on his stroller to keep him safe so that I can finish my People magazine in peace. I am no longer more entertaining than the millions of hazards that exist on your average campground. And I am not willing to give up a yearly family tradition just because it will be inconvenient and frightening.

So I am at a camping crossroads, so to speak.

I have reached the fork in the trail.

I am caught between a rock and a river.

Sorry.

I am not gonna lie to you and tell you that I am looking forward to this little trip 100%.

I am feeling stressed out and overwhelmed; kind of like I do when I take the kids to the park by myself only a million times more. This is when our parent training and Monchichi's therapy is truly tested. How much have we gained? Where are we going from here? What more can we do, as a family, to keep on truckin?

It would be easy to close the curtains, turn on the A/C, and bask in the lonliness and frustration that sometimes seeps into our lives as we face daily hurdles and navigate around new obstacles. And believe me. There are days. It is never perfect, and you can never plan enough, and even the best intentions turn out disasterous once in a while.

But to give up on what life has to offer because it takes a little more foresight and a lot more energy, well, that would be like giving up on Monchichi. And in the words of his therapist, that is Not A Choice.

So we are packing for success.

A glimpse of our not-so-mainstream supply list:

Zip ties for the tent, so the stinker can't escape in the middle of the night.

Battery operated cause and effect toys. And lots and lots of batteries.

Books about Wall-E and Lightining McQueen, and Tractors.

Soup cans. Corn cans. Bean cans. Not to eat; to peel and play with.

Pillar Candles

Candlesticks

Bright Orange Construction Fencing. Yards of it.

Blow up pool

Battery operated tent fan

Spongebob Squarepants Paraphenilia

And anything that is cylindrical in shape, unbreakable in design, shiny in appearance, and full of liquid.



To omit these ncecessary and potentially life saving items would be an amatuer move. And we are not amatuers.

But we are parents who are trying super hard not to give in to the status quo and accept limitless limitations, just because our son's medical records look different than yours.



So, ideas, suggestions, prayers and praise are most welcome.



And since I've done my research and discovered a tiny little cafe with wi-fi not far from our campground, I will give you updates on our sanity, or lack thereof.

You know.

In-between chasing, pleading, bribing, redirecting, yelling, priming, reinforcing, taking solar-heated showers from a vinyl bag, and maybe, if there's time, eating polish sausage right off the grill.