I used to feel invincible as a younger, twenty-something single man without children. However, with the birth of my twins through in-vitro fertilization, I now see the fragility of life and often suffer moments of despair whenever my children struggle…

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
~Elizabeth Stone

So, I have two beautiful seven year old twins, one boy and one girl. I will call my son Mini-A and my daughter Mini-B. My daughter, Mini-B, has a disability called Selective Mutism, commonly referred to as extreme social anxiety and misunderstood by many as a form of shyness. Children with Selective Mutism often don’t exhibit any characteristics of the disability until they begin interacting with other children, usually around the age of two or three. Interestingly, when placed in social or public situations children with Selective Mutism can become completely paralyzed by their social anxiety, to the point that the enveloping social fear prevents them from uttering a single word or even moving a muscle.

REFERENCE:
http://www.selectivemutism.org/faq/faqs/what-is-selective-mutism-sm

We first noticed this social anxiety behavior in Mini-B around the time when she was three years old. My wife had just started participating in social events with our twins, taking them to group play dates with other neighborhood toddlers whose parents she had met at the park or local coffee shop. However, Mini-B had difficulty interacting with the other children in these play dates and would not communicate her intentions with words or body language. Instead, out of frustration, she would often display aggressive behavior and it was not uncommon for me to get a call from my distraught wife telling me how Mini-B had bitten a little girl or boy during a play date.

As the frequency of play dates grew, so did the biting incidents, to the point that Mini-B had acquired the notoriety of being the “Biting Twin”. Mini-B’s cult of personality struck fear in the neighborhood toddler community, many of whom could display the indelible bite marks of my golden haired princess if pressed for evidence. As a result, Mini-B and Mini-A were no longer invited to attend group play dates and the two would spend their days with their mother, playing at home, at the park or visiting with the children of a few trusted friends - playing under the watchful eye of my wife.

At this point, we did not know about Selective Mutism, and so the following year we enrolled Mini-B and Mini-A in a soccer league, hoping a shared activity with her brother would help Mini-B overcome her “shyness”. I remember going to the Saturday morning soccer matches and watching as she stood completely still in the middle of the grassy field, straight as an arrow, as a flurry of orange and black clad clumsy toddlers ran by her, kicking and pushing each other in pursuit of the elusive leather ball…amidst all this, Mini-B remained immobile as a statue.

After the soccer season, we decided that maybe Mini-B just needed to participate in more feminine activities, like Ballet. Unfortunately, the ballet experience proved even more traumatic. During the class, while the other little girls practiced their pirouettes and hopping exercises, Mini-B would get on her knees and slowly crawl towards the glass window in a cat-like manner, refusing to participate. We tried enrolling her in other activities including gym classes, art classes, music classes and summer camps, with little success.

Later, during her pre-school years, we learned of Selective Mutism and began seeking treatment for her disability as soon as she enrolled in kinder garden. Now in first grade, Mini-B has limited interaction with her fellow classmates. She participates in class with the assistance of a state appointed education specialist, who along with regular visits to her psychologist and psychiatrist, help her cope with her disability.  My Ex, told me that Mini-B’s psychiatrist prescribed medication for her Selective Mutism last week and today she and I will meet with Mini-B’s psychiatrist to discuss the implications of this decision and how it might help our “Biting Twin”, firmly chomp down and leave her indelible mark on this silent bully.

He approaches me with an eye for malice.

CHEECH: “What are you in for? I’m going to dominate your ass”

ME: “I have a pretty long rap sheet boss - you do not want to mess with me, ’cause I will fuck you up. But, if you must know, I’m in for getting a college and master’s degree, buying a house, buying two cars, paying $40,000 for successful In-Vitro fertilization, buying thousands of toys, supporting a stay at home mom who tries to convince me that my real name is “Asshole” and pushes the envelope when it comes to using up my credit, and other minor financial infractions, like running an online business in order to pay-off revolving debt that would make your rubbery lips curl.”

With that, Cheech walks away, there will be no “domination” attempt today, the “debt talk” frightens him and he knows I’m Bad Ass. Though, I’m sure I’ll get into another “no-holds” barred wrestling match later, as I have on many past occasions with this ruffian.

Cheech what a nice boy…actually, he’s more like a big, happy, muscle…he’s my three year old Boxer dog, sometimes referred to as my “brother”, and no, he doesn’t talk - although, I do think he tries to, on those occasions when he attempts to “dominate” me…there’s nothing quite like waking up in the morning with a dog standing over you, testicles, hanging in the wind. In reality, Cheech is not exactly mine…he’s my parents’ dog, so, yes, I am living with my parents now…in their English basement…”my” English basement. But, the English basement and my dungeon living is a whole other story, another chapter in my absurd existence. So, let’s get back to the topic of work.

It makes me a little angry when I think about how long I’ve worked at the same job (ten years) and how I have spent more time with my colleagues than with my own kids…WTF is up with that? Who decided to make the 40 hour workweek a standard anyway? Why not 20 hours? Why not 10? Now that I think about it, I only get about 5 hours worth of work done anyway (many times less) and spend the rest of the time doing other “stuff” (exhibit A: this blog) and feeling extremely guilty doing so in the process - okay, maybe not that guilty, actually, not guilty at all, just frustrated.

Shit, it almost makes more sense to marry a colleague and have your kids work at the office - one happy family. How frustrating, when I think of all of the productive things I could be doing with my time instead…playing with my kids, going to a museum with my girlfriend, playing a tennis match, working on my online business, sleeping or catching up on some movie classics or painting that masterpiece I’ve had in the back of my mind for the last two years…so much to do, so little time.

So, each morning I approach the 40 Hour Labor Camp as if planning a jail break from a penal colony. I will do my time, follow the rules, I will obey the warden (who is working from home today, incidentally) drink the hot piss they call coffee and eat the shitty grub from the cafeteria, while setting into place my grand escape plan…ten online business and I’m free. So, far, I have created one…got to stay focused.