Transitions

The school year is off and running, and not without its usual ups and downs. Somehow I always forget there will be bumps and overwhelm, exhaustion and readjustment, annoyances and redundancies, surprises good, and surprises bad. We here at the Link house, do not care so much for all that.

Wil will not wear a watch (anymore), and cannot have his cell phone on at school (totally understandable) and does not read conventional clocks easily. He carries on his person a pretty good-sized travel alarm clock, and that is his method for keeping himself on time. I triple checked that said alarm clock was in his backpack when we headed to the car. I did not see or hear him remove said alarm clock, from the backpack, and displace it in my car. I noticed only after I was back at home and stuck there, waiting to receive a package that requires a signature, that never came, and now is likely to screw up tomorrow, too, but that's another post.

Because said alarm clock was not in place, meds were not taken on time. Because meds were not taken on time, pretty much all hell broke loose. All that coupled with the surprises bad, redundancies, overwhelm, blah, blah and blah, let's just say that Beer O'Clock came early today.

Woohoo, too, is having her share of "issues," none of which are serious, but nevertheless taxing, tiring, frustrating and kind of a buzz kill. I will say this, Woohoo is at a great college, and to hear her talk about her classes and be excited about what she's learning, is a wonderful thing. STM and I went to perfectly fine colleges, but I think for at least the first two years, we simply took classes because we had to, and we just checked them off. We weren't engaged (one of mine was "taught" on television), we certainly weren't inspired, and we definitely weren't excited.

On a completely different note, I had plans to have coffee with my cousin Nancy today. In the middle of the night Saturday I sat bolt upright in bed, and realized I could not meet her for coffee, because I had to be home waiting for the package-that-never-came. Long story short, she came to me, and I invited my mom (her aunt) to join us. The three of us had a lovely time.

True confession: I hesitated having Nancy come to my house, because our carpet in the living room is so old/dirty/stained/trashed, and we are in the process of picking new carpet. Because we're so actively in this process, the existing carpet's flaws are in flashing neon to me. Nancy actually said these words to me during her visit, "Did you get new carpet?" My mom, too, seemed surprised when I mentioned to her why the samples were all up against the wall. She thought our carpet was just great.

The truth is, our carpet is not just great. Our carpet was cheap to begin with and we've put it through hell.

The truth is, our carpet is just great. To the casual observer it does what it needs to do, it covers the floor, it's warm under the feet, and with enough carefully placed furniture, it's "fine."

The truth is, so much of what is wrong, right, in need of fixing or just fine, is a matter of perspective. One (me) gets too close to the situation and looses all perspective. Sometimes the smartest thing to do is crack a beer and call it a day - a day like all days, with its highs and with its lows.

Ahhhhh....

This is the moment I've waited nearly three months for. The moment I sit at the coffee shop with my dry cappuccino in a "for here" mug, and breathe. The moment I put my over-the-ear headphones on and with every fiber in my being, discourage conversation from well-meaning strangers. The moment I  take a vow of silence. I will not speak to another human being until I pick up Wil at 2:35 today and hear all about his day. I even crammed a long-distance phone call to a textbook company this morning at 6:30 AM, whose offices are on the East Coast, just so I wouldn't have to face that task during my "off" hours. Woohoo had a snafu with her Spanish textbooks, and long story short, I was not going to pay an additional $180 for two sets, so phone phobia be damned, those books are going back.

Yesterday Wil was especially janked up - summer went out with a bang. He was burping, farting, humming, clucking his tongue, loudly singing, playing the piano and keyboard, all day long. "I've been farting on you for three months," he announced, as though I needed the reminder.

I have a million things on my To Do list, but top of the list is: Restore Sanity. When I finish my coffee I will amble home, take Flicka on a long quiet walk, start the dishwasher, start the laundry, and relish in the sounds that the machines that make my life easier, make. They will not burp, fart, hum, sing, bang, thump their feet, or ask to be taken anywhere. They will just purr along as a backdrop to sounds my soul longs for me to hear.

And That's The Truth

My friend Terry has her new season of "And That's the Truth" premiering today, with none other than your favorite blogger as her first guest. Some of you saw our full 33-minute interview as a sneak preview, others have seen only the trailer. You'll want to watch the whole thing and all of Terry's other great interviews throughout the seasons, which will be on each Tuesday. Terry has a wide variety of guests lined up, and nobody cuts to it quite like Ter!

To watch our interview together click here.

One Giant We

I had to get a mammogram on Wednesday. I had Wil otherwise occupied, and I squandered the first free Wil-free hours I'd had in days, and drove 30 minutes away for a mammogram, 30 minutes back, then came home and cleaned the oven. It's an exciting life I live.

When I got to the hospital where the mammogram was to take place, I had to check in with all the people getting much scarier imaging and actually, quite a few people checking in for outpatient services of all sorts. The scene was a sea of cubbies with people of all ages and sizes in various stages of the check-in process. I wasn't nervous, I've done this a million times, but as I made my way through the maze, I saw an elderly man wearing a jump suit. Now, this caught my eye because STM had an uncle known for wearing jump suits, and we have made quite a big deal out of it. STM and Wil threaten me all the time with getting matching jump suits, and have even gone so far as to go shopping for them once (coming back empty handed - jump suits are harder to find than you might think).

The man in the jump suit grabbed hold of his elderly wife's hand and they ambled slowly out of the cubby maze, and towards me. I couldn't take my eyes off of them, they were adorable, they nearly glowed with love for one another. As the man got near me he said, looking at me with rheumy eyes, "We wish you well."

I thanked him, but couldn't get him out of my mind afterwards. I was so struck not only by the jumpsuit and his kindness, but by the "we." His wife never even knew I was there - I don't think she even saw me, fully absorbed by getting checked in and then making her way out safely with the help of her husband.

Wil got a card from his grandmother for his birthday. She is not a big God person, but she knows Wil is, and so she carefully selected a card designed for a grandma to give her grandson, talking about what a blessing from God he is. She wrote at the bottom of the card, "We love you, Wil, love, Grandma and Papa."

Papa had been gone for nine months at that point.

Grandma, although she doesn't have Papa "with" her, still has Papa with her. They are still a "we."

Perhaps it is in loving like this, and being a witness to love like this, that we can see the greater "we," the fact that there is nothing that separates us all from one another.

We are all one giant we.

1981

Your friend and mine, Kara, has another blog post for us. A lot of great things happened in 1981: The first woman was appointed to the US Supreme Court, I graduated from high school, and Kara was born! Here are some more fun facts about 1981 from Kara:

i have a book of the year i was born 1981 and i was born 1981 and my friend christi got merryed  in 1981

in 1981  i was born at 745 in the eveing  and therie was christmas trees were lit up that year  and  im a fall baby in novemberand in 1981  the milk cost 2.23 sents and coffee cost 2.25 sents and therie was presidents in 1981  ronald reagan the cars cost 7;718.00 united state postage stamp in 1981  cost 18 each and movie tickets cost 2.25 each in 1981   and bacon cost in 1981 1.45 per pound   and fresh ground hambuger cost 97 per pound   and therie is a 1981 calendar in the book of 1981  so in the book of 1981 therie  a page of personal memories  in the book   the title of the book is 1981 remember when a nostalgic look back in time 

your friend kara

Good Tired

STM is a cyclist. He never, ever calls himself that, however, he calls himself a "biker," but he is so far from the image a "biker" conjures up, let's go with cyclist. He rides hard at least three times a week, sometimes 60-70 miles, looking for hills and challenges and loves to pull up on the pedals with his special shoes, working every muscle in his legs. He comes home from this rides happy and good tired, endorphins rushing through him. He often jokes that the easiest part of his weekend, is his 60-mile, uphill ride. I never really understood that, because I am no athlete, although I am a long-time walker, and I do love the time I spend doing that, but one hour a day is enough for me.

Kathleen and I decided it was time to do the marathon again, now that we're both in our 50's. She has done it seven times, twice with me, but our last time together was when I turned 40. I'm starting to get what Stan means, or at least remember. The Portland Marathon is October 6th, so we're doing one long walk a week now until then. On Sunday, we walked 15 miles, it took us 3 hours and 20 minutes, and those 3 hours and 20 minutes were easy in comparison to what I would have been doing during those hours, had I been home. There is good tired and there is just tired. Good tired is such a different tired from the tired that comes from "doing" sometimes very little in a day, but having "conversation" after conversation about things like chocolate covered donuts with sprinkles and exactly what time we're leaving to go to "New Target."

Kathleen and I have been walking a few times a week for fourteen years. Life never fails to provide plenty of things to talk about, and  it's fun to have these long walks to get the extended version of every story. "Start at the beginning and spare no detail," we say to one another. I don't think there's a chance I'll turn into an athlete at this point. I don't even know if I'll do another marathon after this one. Going back to my one-hour-a-day walks will probably suit me just fine, but for now I'm really liking being good tired.

Long and Simple

Sorry, not a lot of blogging this summer and that's for a number of reasons, mostly good. Ever since I had my astrology reading, and the astrologer said, "If you were a younger woman, we'd talk about you getting pregnant, starting a family, that's what's in your chart now, but in this case, it's pregnant with possibility."

As many of you know from experience, that can be a time of concentration, focus, going inward, clarity, excitement - a time of expectancy, both literal and figurative. I do feel like there's something I'm working on conceiving, and while I don't know just what it is, whether it's a "boy" or a "girl" or maybe even twins, I'm excited and curious to find out.

Another big reason I haven't been blogging much, is that if I did, all my posts would be the same, pretty much, and that can tend to wear on a reader. So I've spared you the big, giant monkey mind I'm experiencing around my over-all preoccupation with Wil turning 18 in 10 months and three weeks, not that I'm counting.

I took Wil to the behavioral/developmental pediatrician last week for a med check. His meds are fine and don't need checking, but there's this funny little thing called a law around controlled substances, and so, in we march obediently, every four months to jump through the hoops, just so we can walk out there $150 poorer, with the exact same plan we came in with. As Woohoo says, "So, that happened."

Now, don't get me wrong, I really, really like his doctor, it's just that at this point in time, blessedly, we are fine, and there is really nothing that happens at these appointments. I think because we are fairly new to her, and she also feels like this is more of a rigamarole than anything else, she wants to offer additional services/help to us. Last week she had an intern sitting in with her, a young woman that looked all of 20 but had to be older than that, merely by the fact that she's an intern.

After glancing down at Wil's chart and noticing he'd just had his 17th birthday, in all honesty and earnestness the doctor looked at me and asked, "Have you given any thought to what will happen when Wil turns 18?"

I looked at her and the intern and said, "I think of very little else."

They giggled.

I was not joking.

I think of very little else.

I was making Wil's dinner last night, really shaking it up and heating up frozen French fries from a bag, and he said, "I've thought long and simple about what I want to be for Halloween this year. A monkey."

Grabbing a Post-It I wrote down his exact words so I wouldn't forget. I loved that he didn't say long and hard, he said long and simple." Over and over again, many times a day, I am reminded (painfully) that I make things much harder than they need to be.

Here's to a life that is both long and simple.

Please join me at Hopeful Parents today.

Thank you!

174 Fewer Things To Do

Whenever someone recommends a book, a Website, a this or a that, I have kept the e-mail in my inbox thinking, someday I am going to read/look at/do that. Coupon-of-the-month to our favorite pizza place, for the last several months. Recipes. Ways to promote my book. Adult services for Wil in a year. Conferences I might want to attend. The name of a painter if/when I could convince STM to hire someone to do something "we can do ourselves." How to use Google +. Introduction from Apple on how to use my "new" iPhone (that I've had for six months). 197 of those babies just staring at me day after day after day, haunting and taunting, so much possibility, so much "help."

Today I went through each, and deleted all but 23. I moved those 23 into a new file and have a bright and shiny, squeaky clean inbox now. I cannot tell you how good it felt to say, "No," to those 174 items I was probably never going to do anything with anyway, but am definitely not going to now. They are gone.

Then, on a roll, I went online and deleted all the holds I had on library books. Who needs the pressure to read a book when, and only when, it becomes available? Plus, I have two million books at home that I own and have yet to read - more unfulfilled obligations.

That is just one of the gifts of turning 50, saying no gets a whole lot easier, and in some cases, it's not even a struggle, it's the obvious thing to say/do. No. No. No.

Say it with me.

Successing

 We have just returned from a week of family vacation. Notice, I did not put the word "vacation" in quotes, as I have done for the last seventeen long, LONG years. I am not going to lie and tell you it was nothing but fun in the sun and relaxing from morning to night, followed by peaceful, restful sleep. No. But I will tell you that nobody killed each other, nobody had a meltdown, and there were a lot of laughs. We successfully went out for  "dinner" (4:00 PM) twice. We had a lot of togetherness and periods of finding our four corners of the small rental house, and doing our own individual versions of stimming.

We rented the same house in Sunriver that we rented last year. Our trip last summer was successful enough that we thought we'd have another go of it. Plus, there was this: The Landing:

Pardon my creepy shadow in the picture, and just drink in the glory of "the landing," which in fact is a two-part landing, as you can see. Wil has talked incessantly for a year about the landing, and how he cannot wait to get back to Sunriver where he can hang out with Flicka and Elmo, and enjoy the landing. From the landing one can see whatever someone (STM) is watching on TV. From the landing one can still have his finger on the pulse of whatever is happening upstairs, as well as in the kitchen. Really, it's pretty much all about the landing.

As I was racing around the house like a mad woman the morning we were to leave, Wil was extra janked because of his anticipation over the landing. I had less patience, more to do, and he was doubly loud and extra annoying. I was an inch away from throttling him, when he said in the sweetest, most sincere voice imaginable, "Care, I know this is a lot of work for you, but you're successing."

Check in wasn't until 4:00 and we weren't even guaranteed our house would be ready before 6:00, none-the-less, Wil had us all on a tight 8:00 AM departure schedule for the four-hour drive to Sunriver. Because I've played this game before, I did think to call ahead and request an early check-in. They said it was their busiest season, and that was unlikely, but request I did. I am happy to say that after getting over to Central Oregon and killing time, they called and said we could have our house at 2:30. Some people win lotteries, I win early check-ins.

We got to the house, and the landing, and Wil quickly moved on to his next item on the agenda: The Pool.

Last year I could only get him in the baby pool (one-and-a-half-feet deep). We'd get there the minute the pool opened, and would leave after a couple babies came. I would have to sit right by the side and talk to him the whole time, dying a thousand deaths. I have spent the better part of this last year telling him that seventeen-year-olds can't go in baby pools, and that he would have to go in the "big" pool. I then assured him for a solid year, that the "big" pool was only four feet deep at its deepest, and he was now six-feet tall, so there, do the math, two feet of him, at least, would be above the surface at all times, if necessary.

Our first morning at Sunriver he and I rode our bikes over to the pool, and were there when they opened at 10:00 AM. He didn't hesitate. He got in that pool just like he'd done it a million times.

He then spent the next two hours walking around singing to himself. Only three other boys were in the water, and they were in the "deep" end and mostly not even in the water, but chatting in lounge chairs.  Wil would talk to me periodically, and then report what the next ten songs were going to be that he was going to "sing." He'd get to about song four and then ask for the next one. There was no way on God's green earth that I could remember ten things successfully, let alone ten songs I cared nothing about.. Finally, a super nice man from the couple that had been watching and listening the whole time piped in, "'Rumor Has It,' by Adele. That's the next song." He wasn't the least bit perturbed. He was into it. We struck up a conversation and then spent the next hour happily talking about music and kids and lives and such.

For the next four mornings all of us got to the pool when it opened, and as the week went on the pool got busier and busier and busier. Wil still happily walked around in the water humming and singing for up to two hours in a row without getting out.

On our fourth day at the pool we moved our lounge chairs into the grass, so we could tie Flicka up right outside the fence, where she could see us and we could come give her lots of pets. That dog does not appreciate being left home alone, especially when we're in a strange house. There was a couple also in that area, already at 10:00 AM, and since we were the only ones over there, we struck up a conversation. Well, you know how when you find out you're from the same town/college/etc. you start asking, "Do you know the?" It was unbelievable. Literally, every single question one of us asked, the answer was, "Yes!" We probably knew 20 people in common, at least, we had neighborhoods in common, schools, friends of friends, on and on the list went, I was even a sorority sister of the gal's sister.

STM and Wil had been playing with the Nerf football in the pool, and Wil ripped the end off of it in a moment of lack of impulse control. When we got back from the pool, we squeezed all the water out of it, put it in the sun to dry. Later STM asked me to play a game of catch with him. If STM were married to his dream woman, they'd play catch hours a day and she'd be really good. I am not that woman. For 27 years he's been trying to teach me to throw and to catch, even attempting to teach me how to give it a spin. I was working my tail off trying to figure out how to spin the ball properly, what with the hacked off end and all, and honest-to-God, I could not figure out how to do it so the pointy end went first.

"Just turn it around," STM said.

I was so focused on getting my hands around the "laces" that I seriously, could not compute how to get the "right" end facing him, too.

We had a good laugh about it, but then STM said, "That's how Wil feels all day, every day."

Wil, I know everything is a lot of work for you, but you're successing.

Busy

My summer of being very, very busy, continues. I just finished my second one of these babies:

I've learned what ABV means (Alcohol By Volume) and IBU (International Bitterness Units). I've learned that I actually like my beer like I like my coffee - strong and dark, none of this "blond" nonsense.

Not only did I finish (and love) GONE GIRL, but I recently read three very different books that I also loved, this:

This:

And:

I read this great article and decided that yes, life is way too short to be busy.

Every year for the last seventeen years people have said, "Have a great summer!" Or asked, "Are you having a great summer?" I have nodded, lied, agreed, responded appropriately, all the while hating summer and the horse summer rode in on.

This year, we have actually had a great summer.

To all of you that suffer in summer with your kids, especially special-needs kids, home and at loose ends, there is hope. While Wil is still far from easy and I am still very much responding to his every wish/need/command, he is more independent. He is able to find stuff to do for longer stretches of time. He is able to make some of his own plans and carry them out on his own. He is able to be left alone for a couple of hours without worry that disaster will strike.

While not easy, it is easier.

Om

(My 8-year-old nephew, Kunga, meditating)

I am no expert on the Dharmic religions, but I do know that Om is the most sacred mantra, which embodies the essence of the entire universe. That's quite a lot for two little letters.

I recently watched the PBS documentary, "Neurotypical," which is the term those of us in the autism community call those without autism. I could sit here all day and argue that there is no such thing as "typical," that I've yet to meet anyone "typical," and we're all some fascinating combination of different abilities, gifts, talents, and challenges, but because this is only a blog post and not a full-length book (yet), I won't. I will stick to the terms, "neurotypical" and "autistic."

Do yourself a favor and watch this 53-minute documentary. You will never ever think of the game of tag, the same way again. There is a 41-year-old man named Wolf featured, he eloquently describes the experience of having autism, and the systems he's put into place to make sense of the world.

We all need systems in place to make sense of the world. The world is not an easy place to make sense of. Whatever systems we can put into place to quiet the mind, still the thoughts, calm our center and settle us down long enough to regroup before going back "out there," that's a universal need not limited to those with autism, one might even say that's a "typical" need.

Om.

The Scarecrow

The day after my astrology reading, I went for a walk with my dear friend, Val. Val is just the one you want to walk with after any kind of metaphysical experience. She is great to process things with, and she is likely to have some nugget you are looking for, downloaded to her in the process. Case in point, we're walking and I'm telling her all about Wil's Cardinal Cross, and how the astrologer said his work in the future, both literally and figuratively, is in the church. Val spotted a crow feather on the ground, "The crows are talking," she said, "we need this."

We keep walking, her holding the crow feather, me prattling on and on. I tell her how I get all fired up when people dismiss those with disabilities, as not having something useful to "say." I tell her how the astrologer says my chart indicates I have lots of public speaking in my future around that topic, and how in a million years I never would have predicted I'd end up a public speaker (and still find it far-fetched).

We move back to Wil and his chart. "The astrologer said in the next two-and-a-half years Wil is going to be more in the 'intersection' than we had thought he would be, which is going to be very weird for us."

"I just had an image of the Scarecrow in 'The Wizard of Oz,' for Wil - standing in the intersection pointing the way for others that have lost direction," Val says.

"Oh, my God," I say, "the crow feather! The Scarecrow! And how about the Scarecrow being the symbol for those "without a brain," that really do have a brain, but they are dismissed as those that don't?"

We both get chills running up and down our spines.

I don't think Wil's work in the "intersection" is to scare anyone or anything away, but to re-direct those that are limited by their beliefs, their conditioning, and their limited thinking about people with brains that work differently.

True Success

I would post more often, but I'm very busy being truly successful by this definition. Leave it to ol' Toeless Terry to nail it!

Enjoy!

Be the Altar

I had my about-once-a-year astrology reading on Wednesday. I've been going to this astrologer since 2006, which doesn't sound like a super long time, but nonetheless I feel like we've been through a lot together. It's quite an intimate relationship. I, at least, feel like "it's" all right there in front of her, no pretenses, no fancy footwork, no posing or re-framing. What she sees is what is there, written in the stars - things you know about yourself and things you don't, things you want to know about yourself, and things you don't, things you're trying to figure out about yourself and things you've got all figured out.

If you've never invested in a reading with a good astrologer, I encourage you to consider it. For me, it's intensified and accelerated therapy. Whatever it is you're pondering/struggling with/considering/moving towards or away from, after a reading you feel less cluttered, more affirmed, centered, pointed in the right direction. How can you put a price on that?

She reviewed with me my lifetime lunation cycle:

As we all know, we cycle through a darkness and light cycle each day, each month, and throughout our lifetime. It's not all in our head - there are periods where we are planting, and periods where we are harvesting, periods of ripeness and periods of being fallow. The trick is to move with the cycles, and not against them. I am two-and-a-half years away from my next summer solstice, and that's exactly what it feels like to me - there is something around the corner that is not quite ready to come up, but is just below the surface. We talked at great length about what that/those might be and what to do in preparation. We think it might have something to do with my preoccupation with the rampant intellectualism that is still mostly okay in our culture.

The other thing I wanted to look at was Wil's chart, and what is coming up for him. A year from turning 18, two years from being done with school, lots of ideas but no big plan, I was needing some astral direction. The astrologer has done Wil's chart before, and when she pulled it out this time she said, "Oh, there it is again - the Cardinal Cross  - the symbol for the oneness of all life. Is he very spiritual?"

"Very," I said.

"It's too bad he doesn't live in India - India would know what to do with a person like this. This is the chart of high spiritual teachers."

"Does he have an altar in his room? Could he be an altar server? You know what, never mind, he is the altar," she said.

I left an hour later with renewed mission in the holy work Wil has to do in this world, and my role in facilitating that.

Amen.

Taking Turns

Today was one of those days where I felt like I was in my car all day - haven't even read a single page of GONE GIRL. Every turn I tried to make was thwarted by traffic, detours, construction, bridge building, or faulty directions by Siri. So rattled, at one point I very nearly turned right onto a one-way street going the opposite way, and I would have, too, had it not been for the urgent and persistent honking of the car directly behind me, warning me of my almost-disaster. I did wave a thank you to her upon correction and redirection, then quickly turned at the next possible corner to avoid any sort of awkward eye contact from mirrors.

I tried to run into Safeway just to get a few things, and everything was moved, as in, every thing. Scratch that, the bread was where it supposed to be, likewise the produce, but everything else had moved since the last time I was there. Just like all the roads I'd so gratefully gotten off of to come into the store, there was nothing but one way streets and road blocks, detours, poor directions and inherent frustration.

A few hours and multi-errands later, I crossed the Sellwood bridge to take Wil to the doctor. The Sellwood bridge is not fun on a good day, and these days there ain't nothing but bad days, as the ancient bridge is being replaced right next to the existing/temporary one. I almost always go over the bridge and turn right/north but this time I went under the clover-leaf and drove south. I'd forgotten because of the massive construction project, the zone is now 25 MPH, down from 45 MPH. I got too close to the car in front of me and then realized she was not just trying to drive me crazy, she was indeed, following the speed limit. I slowed way down, put a respectful amount of distance between us, and thought we were done with the matter, but she rolled down her window and flashed her hands dramatically, first holding up two fingers, then five, then back to two, then back to five.

Got it.

Tried to find a nearby frozen yogurt shop after Wil finished at the doctor and Siri fervently insisted I turn left on a street where no left turn was allowed. Had to drive forever to get myself going in the right direction. Ate my yogurt grumpily outside on the beautiful day, as someone inconsiderately sat and smoked nearby.

Loaded back into the car and packed it full of my black mood, heading on the freeway near rush hour. We limped along, finally got off on our exit, hit more construction and traffic, before heading back over the Sellwood bridge. This time I was in the lane with the right-of-way, and the traffic coming from the other direction, trying also to get on the bridge, had a yield sign. Every time I cross that bridge from either direction I marvel that the city of Portland has created its own "rule" that you take turns at that point. Invariably, the car without the yield, lets one car with the yield go, then he/she goes, and on and on it continues, taking turns beautifully, systematically, without "having" to,  without signage, without monitoring, just because it's the right thing to do - take turns.

And just like that, my good mood got its turn.

Can't Talk Now

Very, very busy being the last person on the planet to read this:

While drinking this (decaf):

Reverse Stranger Danger

Please join me over at Hopeful Parents today. Thanks!

Prying

I've been mulling something over ever since my 4th of July family reunion, when not one, but two cousins both said nearly the exact same thing: "I was so glad to read your book. I'd always wondered about your life, but I didn't want to pry."

I don't know if this phenomenon is unique to my family or if it's more of a greater cultural thing, but I was definitely raised with the theory, "If they want me to know, they'll tell me."

I do not subscribe to that theory.

At the same reunion my cousin's 19-year-old daughter, having just finished her freshman year of college and considering a career as an OT, also read my book, and asked if she could ask me a few questions. "How can therapists be most helpful, and what is okay and not okay to ask parents?"

Aren't those good questions? I answered that it had way more to do with intent, than with word choice. The "wrong" question with the right intent, is still the right question. You can easily tell the difference between idle curiosity, and genuine interest, and all is forgiven when someone is on the same team. As far as what therapists can do to be most helpful, again, conveying their intent to be most helpful, is most helpful. Opening that door to being someone the parent and/or child can go to for support, ideas, strategies, problem-solving, guidance, a kick-in-the-%$#, whatever the case may be, that is most helpful.

Recently I saw an old friend. She and I are part of a foursome that gets together several times a year, and has for 24 years. We have been through a lot together, shared births, deaths, divorces, re-marriages,  new jobs, retirements, and all of life's ups and downs. Or at least I thought so. I just learned that some pretty big things have been omitted over the years, I am sure it's to protect the privacy of others, I am sure it's because those things are hard to talk about and are a buzz kill when you're getting together for drinks and some laughs. I am sure that the three of us also failed to "pry" enough. We took this friend at face value when she said things like, "Great!" "Fine!" "The same!"

Maybe it's true that she didn't want us to know, so she didn't tell us, and then when she did want us to know, she did tell us. Maybe the most helpful thing we could have done was held space for her all these years until the burden was too much to bear and the cost of not telling was greater than the cost of telling.

I hope so.

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago today this holy boy came into the world. He came into my life exactly nine months prior to that, as his presence was known to me instantly, and of course, he was born not around his due date, but on  it. He has kept himself and everyone around him to a rigid schedule ever since.

This past year he has come into his own.

He is a long, long way from being able to live independently, but he is ever closer to being able to think independently. He knows his own mind; what he likes, what he doesn't like, what he wants, what he doesn't want, what behaviors he will accept from others and what behaviors he will not, what he will spend his free time doing and what he will not.

A couple of mornings ago I was flying around the kitchen trying to get his breakfast in front of him, cleaning up the kitchen, wiping up all the water Flicka dribbled from her bowl to her bed in some mad tail-chasing order that repeats itself each and every morning with frustrating regularity as I tried to get out the door to meet Kathleen for a 7:00 AM walk. Wil prattles, the microwave beeps, Flicka dribbles the just-wiped area, the toaster pops, I inhale one bite of my own breakfast, repeat. And the prattling isn't something you can just nod and tune out, he gets you on the hook, he's arranging things, putting his requests in, planning his life.

"We will go to Trader Joe's at 8:02 and I will get gluten-free Jojo's for dad. We will get blueberries and strawberries and watermelon and pineapple because we really need to have flavor-changing in action for our water. The water in our fridge is really old and we really need to have flavor-changing in action. We will have blueberry water on Wednesday, pineapple on Thursday, watermelon on Friday and on Saturday we will have strawberry. The water in the fridge is really old and we really need flavor-changing in action just like the frozen yogurt that gets flavor changed, we will need to do that every day so we will go to Trader Joe's at 8:02 and get all the flavor-changing things."

I buzz around the kitchen even more maniacally with each order he barks, check my watch to make sure I'm not late, grab the poop bags, a Kleenex, my shoes, the leash and set it all out by the door.

"Care," he says, "I am only sixteen for a few more days. It's really important that you remember that. Don't forget that I am only sixteen for a few more days. Time is going by. I am getting older. Just remember that I am only sixteen for a few more days."

When each day feels like the last in so many ways, times 365/year times seventeen years, it's hard to step back and see the growth, see the changes, see the distance you've travelled and see the future as one whose flavor will continue to be in action.