Archive for the ‘The Kids’ Category
November 22 2011
“Here, puppy, come on!”, my daughter called for her stuffed animal. When the immobile toy didn’t follow as intended, she swooped over to pick it up. Then, nuzzled its white cotton fur against her cheek lovingly.
“Puppy needs food”, she declared.
“What kind of food does it want?”, I asked.
“Puppy food!”, she replied. Of course. So I looked around to see if there was anything available to feed her stuffed animal, settling on pretending to pour some beans from a decorative jar. But an animal can’t live on food alone, even one that’s not real, thus it needed water, as well.
When her puppy was fully nourished, we headed out to pick the boys up from the bus stop. She carried her cozy friend along the way way, first jammed in her pocket, then setting it on the ground to feel the grass on its feet. Because puppies, they want the semblance of freedom. Abby even took it for an assisted walk, before she was afraid it would get too cold.
“Puppy needs gloves, too”, she stated, looking at the mittens already on her hands.
“Your puppy has fur. That keeps it warm”, I informed, an explanation that seemed to satisfy her enough. Though she held it tight next to her, against her heavy winter coat, as an extra layer of protection. Then she praised, “He’s a good puppy”.
She was really cute with her puppy.
So cute that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her puppy is really a lamb.
November 21 2011
I sat in a squeaky office chair as a small conference room of school faculty read aloud their reports. The room was otherwise silent and my expression absent as they detailed what they had observed from Buzz during their evaluations. Every few minutes I would glance up at the clock, willing for it to end. Stop bombarding me with what he’s doing wrong and tell me what we can do to help him.
Going into it, I had stated that I wanted answers. I had no idea it would feel like so much of an attack.
“He seems unaware of others’ space, and puts himself in unsafe situations.”
He’s always been my dare-devil child. I make jokes about it, even. You should read my website.
“He doesn’t participate well in class, and has a hard time focusing.”
Well, yeah, because of his trouble communicating. One of the reasons he was in therapy before.
“He has trouble making eye contact.”
I only noted this because his teacher mentioned it in the previous meeting and I knew I was filling out those stupid forms wrong. Personally, I’ve never noticed a lack of eye contact.
“He has a habit of playing with toys out of their intended purpose.”
He’s 5. He’s imaginative, I don’t understand why that’s bad. This is a ridiculous thing to single out.
“His speech mainly echoes that of what is said to him.”
I can’t argue with this.
I was sitting there, an abundance of negative aspects about my child being clinically read aloud, arguing the seriousness of each in my head. All while I was fighting the tears from my eyes. It was such a hard thing to hear, along with a diagnosis I had blindly swept out of possibility.
Put it all together, however, and it makes sense.
My son has Autism.
But he’s still my same little boy.
November 10 2011
Dearest Jedi,
As I am writing this, you are proudly burping at the desk across from me. Every time, you ask delightedly, “Did you hear that?”. Every time I say, “Of course I did”. Because of course I did.
For your birthday today, along with a few other things, I bought you a book where the main premise had to do with farts. Super farts that could make you fly into the air.
This is you at 8. My son. My boy. Farting and burping.
But so much more. You a genius on the computer. What you know how to do honestly astounds me. You have surpassed my knowledge by leaps, and I’ve found myself asking you how to do things on a number of occasions. Your Grandma likes to say that maybe you’ll be the next Bill Gates. She may not be far off.
You are brilliant and beautiful and excited. Dramatic and loud. A torpedo of constant motion and conversation. And as much as you complain when your siblings invade your space, as impatient as you can be, I also see how you look out for them when you think no one is watching. You make sure Buzz is safe at school and you comfort Abby when she’s upset. You are a wonderful big brother.
I am so proud of you in so many ways. And as I finish writing this, as if right on cue, you exclaimed, “Now that I smell it, my farts really do smell bad”.
My farting, burping, smelly, amazing now 8 year old boy.
Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mom
November 08 2011
A long time ago, when Jedi was a young man at 6 years of age, the tooth fairy flew her way into our humble abode for the first time. What she left on that initial landing was staggering, and quite frankly given with not much forethought.
Because you see, once a 5 dollar bill is gifted for one tiny tooth, there is a need felt to continue with that amount of generosity. Perish the thought that the child might believe this tooth is any less than that tooth. As such, losing teeth becomes a rather lucrative transaction. Or so it would seem.
Sometimes, however, the tooth fairy is caught off guard. A tooth comes out before she has a chance to blink and is subsequently placed under the pillow. Leaving the tooth fairy to scramble. And maybe borrow a few dollar bills from the intended recipients own money jar in an effort to come up with 5 to give. The tooth fairy also leaves IOUs. She’s a schemer, that one. This whole business is very misleading.
As is what happened when Jedi woke that morning. He reached under his pillow, to eagerly retrieve the gift the tooth fairy gave. Then counting his ones, the ones he already unknowingly had, he turned to me and said loud enough for the tooth fairy to hear, “Thank you!”. Then lowering his voice, “But she could have just given me a $5 bill”.
To which I wanted to say, “If you had a $5 bill in your money jar, I’m sure she would have.”
It would be so much easier if Jedi started out only getting a buck.
October 25 2011
With a drawing tablet and handful of markers, Abby disappeared into the bedroom. A while later, Jedi got off the computer and went to find his sister to play. He found her all right. Then came in and said in an alarmed tone, “Abby’s colored herself blue, I don’t want to play with her like that”.
Assuming she maybe marked a bit on her hands, it wouldn’t be the first time Jedi overreacted, I didn’t heed his warning right away. Because it couldn’t be that bad. Whatever it is, it washes off. “Is it just on her?”, I made sure to ask him, because I’d hate to have to wash the bed sheets or scrub color off the wall. “Yes”, he replied. Nothing to concern myself over then, so I thought.
Abby finally emerged after a few more minutes passed. Vibrantly illustrating why I should have went back to check on her.
For once, Jedi was not overreacting. She was blue. Blue as blue can be.
Smurfette blue.
I tried to scrub it off with a sponge, but it was a futile effort. It was on her face, she gave herself a mustache, all over legs, the bottom of her feet, arms, hands. You name it, she covered it with gusto. She had markered herself so extensively that I could do nothing else than give her an impromptu bath. And I was worried about washing bed sheets.
As I set my Smurf in the tub, the abundance of pigment began to rinse off of her like a backwards Easter egg. It was so plentiful that it even turned the water around her a stunning shade of ultramarine. One more memory I have to fondly recall. “Remember when you were 3 and turned yourself blue? Good times.”
