This Is the Blog That Never Ends...

So no posts recently because in my head, I keep saying the same things over and over and over, and I've bored MYSELF so thoroughly that I'm afraid of the lawsuits that will arise if I pour it all out onto a blog page and send innocent readers into comas.

You would think, perhaps, that since I am now here, something of note had occurred, but OH! How wrong you would be!

However, on the off-chance that someone reads this stuff and actually finds it useful to know that somewhere out there in the great Blogiverse, another parent is indeed mired in the same mental muck at this point on their journey down the autism diagnosis road, I give you the word that has taken over my life:

Paperwork.

Jesus gawdamighty, the PAPERWORK!

Now my faithful reader will know that I come from a group home background, professionally, so I am wily to the ways of forms and paper trails and documentation, O my! Even so, I am perilously close to overwhelmed by the sheer number of things to keep track of - and so, I have done what any good direct care staff person does: I made a binder.

I modeled it on the one suggested on the Autism Speaks website, in their MOST EXCELLENT 100 Day Plan, and in the course of a week, I can already tell you that in the event of a house fire, if the cat doesn't happen to be sitting directly on top of it as I gather up stuff to save, he's on his own. It's that good. (And thanks to my friend Corrine for pointing me to it!)

So now, I have a place to write down every service provider's name and info, every contact I make inquiring about something, and what follow-up it requires, and when. All Jamesy's medical reports, from immunizations to audiology screens to neuro (when we finally get it done), have a section, so I can easily lay my hands on them to make copies when I apply for the next round of whatevers. IFSPs. Evals. General correspondence. Schedules.

I added a monthly calendar section so I can see his schedule at a glance when arranging the no-fewer-than SEVEN therapy/eval appointments he is up to weekly, and then a second, separate one (stored in the clear plastic sleeve on the cover) to which I add not only HIS stuff, but all the rest of our dentist, school, pediatrician, etc appointments, so I can fail to overlap by mistake.

I have copies of all his insurance cards, and a wallet-size photo of him, and a prescription from his regular pediatrician to the developmental pediatrician. (All of these because they were required when applying for an appointment with the developmental pediatrician [APPLYING. APPLYING?! WTF??] and it seemed like a good idea to have them on hand since no doubt someone else will eventually want them too.)

Also, A nefarious subliminal trick occurred to me when getting the THIRTY PAGES of supporting documentation together for that application: His picture



goes on top.

I realize you need to know his history, and we're only doing this so we can address all his tics and 'special' behaviors... but don't forget for ONE SECOND that this is my KID, dammit. He has a face - see it? Innit cute?

And if I have to shuffle 80 godzillion papers to get you to even consider him, you can damn well remember who you're reading about when you look through them!

Whew!

Sorry. My temper got away from me there for a sec.

So, anyway... yeah. Paperwork. It's making me nuts. More nuts. Contributing to the overall nuts factor. Aw, nuts!

I hate it, but it seems it will be one of the defining factors of this journey, so here I am, mom-ninja with binder-chuks, ready to battle it head on or assault it, all stealthy-like, under cover of darkness and tequila. Er... darkness.

More from the trenches after Ed, the OT eval guy, leaves us later tonight!