Susan Senator

Yesterday we celebrated Mother’s Day, my dad’s birthday (69), Laura’s belated birthday (45), Ben’s belated birthday (8) with my family in Connecticut. Somehow, it was a glorious, sunny, hot day, totally ex machina. Mom got a Carvel ice cream cake and Laura and I ate some even though we are both usually carb-free. Delicious.

We divided into two teams: Dad, Mom, Nat, Ned, me vs. Max, Paul, and Laura, and played wiffle ball in the back yard. Laura and I kept laughing about everything and everyone, making totally dirty jokes under our breath just like when we were teenagers. So much fun. Got a tan, plus, I never struck out once! I got a ton of hits. My strategy? Hold the bat “wrong” (Ned’s description) and swing at every single ball! I got more hits than anyone!!! Probably helps that pitching for their side was my 10 year old nephew! Paul is a very special kid; totally Nat’s ally. Asks him what he’s thinking about, tries to teach him how to skim board and how to use the bat.

They won, 10-7. Dad pitched for our side and despite absolute shoulder pain, he was very good, just like in my younger days. Mom was pretty good at batting, it turned out! (The tree doesn’t grow very far from the apple?) You may be wondering what happened to Ben and Kimmie, Laura’s little girl who is Ben’s soul mate? They were in Littles World, which is what they do when they get together. They get so absorbed in their play together that they don’t even eat.

Later on we were scootering down the slope in Dad’s driveway and riding on toddler trucks, all hunched up. Ben is very good at stunts. Max hurt his ankle. Ben and Max bickered over the scooter. Mom and Dad bickered over dinner. I got pissed at Max for pouting over the restaurant choice and at Ned for sticking up for him. Nat seemed utterly content, which was good. We all made up and ate a huge Italian dinner.

Ned drove the whole way back home (nearly three hours) while I slept in a car-induced stupor of cramped-neck drowsiness. Home at 11 p.m.

I woke up at 6:36 a.m. but knew that I could not get out of bed because the men were supposed to bring me my coffee. I tried to go back to sleep and succeeded until around 7. When Ned heard that I was up, he swung into action. But I came down before he could bring me my coffee; couldn’t wait anymore. We ran out of Splenda so he had to go get some. He decided to go to Dunkin’ Donuts and get the boys treats and bring me a few Splenda as well. Couldn’t get Nat to come down and eat his donut because I guess he was “busy” in his bedroom.

Max and Ned got me some gorgeous earrings and Benj made me a Mother’s Day Coloring Book! Every page has a drawing of a different item I care about, with color-by-number instructions: one page has my boys, one page has the cover of MPWA, one page has two diamond rings, one page has Ned! Ben also made up a poem for me:

MOTHER
She lets me watch TV,
She helps me when
I scrape my knee.
When I’m hot, she
puts on the A.C.

She sets the timer
on the oven, I really
like her mother lovin.
Her kisses make me
feel like I’m hoverin.

I love mother and
she loves me, hearing
this, she’d blush with glee.
She sews the clothes
that need a mend, and now its…
THEND
love, the youngest.

I am totally undone.

Sorry to be sexist, but I think boys play sooo differently from girls. I am sitting here in my windowseat watching the puppies (Max and Ben) play. It is completely physical and lightly abusive. They smack at each other, say, “ha-ha!” like Nelson Muntz, grab at each other’s feet and pull one another to the (hard) floor. Usually it is Max who gets Ben, then he kisses him a little! Puppy love. My heart melts at their sweetness. I sit in a love-drunk stupor, a pile of sugary Mommymush.

When I was a girl, my sister and I only rough-housed when we were either truly fighting or playing “fight in the dark” with my boy cousins, Larry and Ronnie, who were our age, a little older. Sometimes other cousins were there. We would go into their parents’ bedroom, all get on the bed, shut the light, and who ever you would bump into you would wrestle. Totally innocent, I swear! It was pre-pubescent play. It was just pure fun, and sometimes a little painful, but nothing inappropriate. I remember getting hurt once, and crying to my dad, who said, “Well, you’re going to play with the boys, you’re going to get hurt sometimes.” I heard him, believed him, and went back for more.

As I grew older, I realized that truer words were never spoken, right girls? Yet my enjoyment of playing with boys has never dimmed.

If only I could get as much of a kick out of the little pleasures stumbled upon in a day the way my kids do; I think I’d be so much happier. Nat and Ben in particular still have the child’s appreciation for simple things. Max is so close to adulthood, he is far more difficult to please; particularly the fact that he’s fourteen makes it all the more of a challenge to muster his smile.

This morning I was reading to Nat the book Henry and Mudge and Puddle Trouble, a book Nat is very familiar with, and just when we got to the parts where Mudge eats Henry’s blue flower, I looked at Nat and he had a big grin on his face. He could not wait to hear about Henry’s profound disappointment. And the same thing happened later when Mudge shakes himself off and gets mud all over Henry’s dad. Big toothy smile for Nat. Made me smile, too, where I might ordinarily have been a little bored, having read it a million times.

And tonight after dinner, Ben said, “Oh, I can’t wait for Tuesday [tomorrow] morning!”
I said, “Why, Honey?”
And then I knew, the moment I asked. I had been told three times this weekend to buy Cookie Crisp cereal. I had been asked this afternoon if I had remembered to buy Cookie Crisp cereal. And now, I could proudly answer my own question: “Oh, you are going to try Cookie Crisp cereal tomorrow morning!”
And he grinned his toothless pirate’s grin.

Can you imagine being so young and easy-to-please that you’d be excited about the next day’s cereal?

I do remember that younger me, being so crazy about Lucky Charms. So was my sister Laura. When we went on vacations, my mother bought the mini boxes with an assortment of cereals (Remember the Kell-Bowl-Pack? So obscure I could not find a link on Google! Where you could eat the cereal with milk right from the box?). The first to go would be the Lucky Charms and it would be a problem because of how much we both loved them. It was so hard not to only eat the marshmallows! But you have to eat the cereal; that’s part of the deal.

Sometimes at home Mom would break down and buy us Lucky Charms. Actually, most of our cereal was junk cereal but there was something particularly egregious, in her opinion, about Lucky Charms. Now a mother, I agree with her. Back then I did not. Every morning we would grab a box and pour a huge bowl and sit behind our designated boxes. We would play “What do you pick?” This was a game we made up — and which Laura liked far more than I did but I was a good sport and typical kid sister so I played — where we would ask the other questions from our boxes: “What do you pick, hearts, clubs, squares, or suns?” The answer was “hearts,” the shape being the Lucky Charm shape she was looking at. And so on. It was a kind of nudgy game.

Dad would come downstairs and find us hunched behind our boxes, scooping and slurping huge spoons of sugary crap dripping with 1 % milk from Stew Leonards and he would say, “Ah, the Dry Cereal Consumption Factory is in operation!” Ever pleased with himself, even though he made the same joke every single day of my childhood.

I guess Dad retained his childlike joy, come to think of it. He probably still gets excited about his cereal in the morning, although because he’s a health nut, it’s something disgusting like Bran buds.

Emmy unloaded her cart onto the conveyor belt at the Stop and Shop, and thought, as always, that her family’s diet was atrocious. Kocoa Krispies, Froot Loops, Twinkies, Oreos, soda, pretzels. Fat, sugar, carbs. The holy American trinity. Her food was weird but healthier: turkey breast, half-fat cheese, bags of lettuce, Boca Burgers, nuts. No fruit, but she rationalized that easily. Who needed fruit, when there were multivitamins? She got fiber, she got Vitamin C. Did she really need the sugar that a slice of watermelon offered? Mmm, she thought, that pink sugary water… Stop! That way lies madness.

May would be the beginning of her fourth year on Atkins. At first it had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, giving up bread and sugar. But after a few months, it was second nature. She never thought about bread anymore, unless she was eating out in a nice restaurant. Then, she could not believe the smell of a good, crusty bread or the give of its soft white middle on her tongue. She would hold it to her nose and inhale it, like Nick did with food or people who wore perfume. Eric used to joke that inhaling bread the way she did was also fattening. “One carb for smelling,” he’d say.

She was going to be seeing Eric on Sunday, when he dropped off the boys. She was going to try to see D*** Saturday night, and she was a little nervous about having to report the details of her date to Eric the next day, their new bargain. She got a little frisson thinking about it, too. Ew, what is my problem? she thought. And then, Well, why should I judge myself? Sexuality is just another feeling, like everything else, isn’t it? She dug in her wallet for her Stop and Shop card. We can’t help what turns us on. What pushes our buttons —

“You have to push ‘Enter if you don’t want cash back,’” the cashier said impatiently, interrupting her thoughts. Em looked up and suddenly noticed a line of three people with very full carts standing behind her. In fact, the person closest to her was too far up already, practically blocking Emmy’s access to the card swipe. “Excuse me,” she said a little brusquely, because she was embarrassed at having held up the line and because of her hot thoughts, even though no one knew what she’d been thinking about.

It seemed to her that Saturday would never arrive. She woke up to a hot, sunny late May day, and figured she’d mow the lawn for her exercise. Em always used a push mower so that she wouldn’t have to bother with gas. After an uneventful breakfast and send-off of the boys, she hauled the green clumsy mower out of the shed and started pushing listlessly. It was always so boring to mow the lawn, at first, until she started to get into the zen of it, until the paths started to show, the light green striped pattern that formed on the lawn. The click-click-click of hearing and feeling blade biting into grass was like a slow, sweet massage. Also, she loved the smell of the grass as it was clipped. Sometimes she got a little wheezy but most of the time, all she felt was a pleasant light sweat.

After the lawn was finished, Em got out some large paper bags and started to do some weeding. Webs of chamomile had sprung up across every empty space in her gardens overnight. The good thing about the chamomile was that it had tiny roots that did not hold very tight, not like the crabgrass that sent a carrot-like root down deep within days of popping up. Em often wondered about the secret lives of plants. (Wasn’t that a book title? She should go find out and read it.) She marveled at how there would be absolutely nothing one day and then a three-inch growth of green the next. What happened? When was the exact moment when life began? The million-dollar question of the century, she thought, thinking about the whole Life vs. Choice debates that raged over abortion. Since having Nick, Em was not nearly as staunchly pro-Choice as she’d been. Not that she wanted to decide for others, but she wondered how many people abort disabled babies, and regretted it. Or would have regretted it, had they come to know Nick or someone like Nick. But people assumed she was more pro-Choice than ever because of the autism, but actually, she was horrified to think that there may have been a prenatal test for autism and maybe she would have aborted Nick, not knowing what autism or Nick were really like. Some of her friends thought that now especially she would want to know, but when she was pregnant with Henry and Dan, she did not want to know anything. She just wanted everything to be alright, whatever that meant. “If he’s autistic,” she told Eric with a bravery she did not really feel, “I just want to be able to deal with it and be happy. No more suffering!”

“No more suffering. Got it,” said Eric, rolling his eyes. She remembered how he had put his hand on her swollen belly and said, “Ya hear, Child? Don’t make ya mothah suffah!” He sounded just like her grandma, who had adored Eric, her grandson-in-law, more than anyone else in her family, up to the day she’d died. “He’s a good man, even though he’s not a professional,” she used to say, referring to the fact that Eric was neither a doctor, nor a lawyer, the only professions in her family. Fetal Dan had kicked him hard in response. Typical, she thought now.

The drive back from the airport in a cab, the moment I reach the Esplanade and I can see the two signs over Storrow Drive: “Kenmore; Fenway.” I know I am home and I’ve done good. Tired, eager, proud, grown-up.

The first moments in the hotel, alone, taking off my shoes, getting ready to give my talk. Feel like Mary Tyler Moore. Completely competent, strong, accomplished, free.

Misty but clear warm evening, Fenway is packed, my seat is not bad, my friend by my side with so many things to catch me up on. They are winning, so far ahead, it is ours. Cold soda, salty pink hot dog. Laughing my head off, thirsty, quenched, alive.

Sucking in hot salty air as I pedal up the hill on Ocean Drive in Eastham, approaching the “second ocean,” Coast Guard Beach. To the left are low dunes covered in beach shrubs and Cape roses (rugosas), and suddenly, there is the ocean: huge, monstrous, powerful, forever.

Sunny Saturday morning, no plans. The kids are completely absorbed in whatever they’re doing, no one cares about us. We feel the same, close the door tight. Excited, in love, unwrapped, beautiful.

This is an excerpt from a novel I started last year, called Tales Told Out of School, about local politics.

I am staring at the computer screen. The editor has finally gotten back to me about the PTO alienation story and it is a no. She asks me to do a piece on preadolescent sex but because of the campaign, I decline. I also don’t want to know what kids Sam’s age are doing with each other’s bodies. It is a scary thought. How do I really know, if all I’ve taught him about safety and self-restraint, will really come into play when the pedal meets the metal?

Anyway, no time. It is kind of a blessing that I got rejected, I figure, because I would not have had the time to do it all: mommy, writer, campaigner. We’re going to have to do with less income for the next few months. I hope that when I’m elected – if I’m elected – I will have time to do freelance again.

“The thing you have to do,” Fred Slezak had said to me, “Is run so hard that you knock Nonnie out of the race.” Fred used to be on the School Committee, and now as our state rep. I had pulled papers at Town Hall just a week ago, and begun to collect signatures – I needed 50, but really 75 to be on the safe side – of registered voters. But still Nonnie had not declared anything. “Right now,” Fred continued, “You are in a contested race.”

A contested race is something any candidate fears, no matter the office. A contested race changes your whole life for the months of the campaign. There is not a person you can talk to freely. You have to be conscious of everything you say around town, because people will talk and when you are running a contested race, a little gossip can bring you down. Or worse, keep you from getting endorsed.

Fred told me that I had to line up as many endorsements as possible, then send a letter to the local paper announcing the hundreds I had on my campaign, in the hopes of knocking Nonnie out. I got hold of the Town Meeting Member handbook and had been going down the list making my calls.

I start with people I think might be open to me. Arthur Engle, a columnist for the local paper. We have spoken on occasion, and share the view that taxes are not a four-letter-word. He is a lovable curmudgeon-type, or perhaps just a curmudgeon. “Hi Arthur,” I say, my voice thin and high, the way it gets when I’m nervous, which is always.
“Annabelle! I was wondering when you’d call.” Arthur must have caller I.D. He sounds bemused. Why, I wonder?
“Oh. Have you heard that I’m running for School Committee?”
“I have indeed.”
“And? “ I break a sweat.
Silence.
“Um, do you think you would endorse me?”
Arthur chuckles. “You know, Kiddo, I would love to, but because I’m a state employee, I can’t. But I think it’s terrific you’re doing this. Really terrific. Maybe I’ll write a column about you. But no guarantees, you understand.”
I swallow. “Okay, thanks,” I say slowly. Now I just want to get off the phone. And, moments later, I do.

I resist the urge to toss the handbook in the garbage. I tell myself that this is just the campaign, not the job. There are bound to be some surprises, since I’ve never done this before. Next call is to someone I don’t know at all, Thompson Hall. Why not just start cold, and see where it goes?
“Hello?” The voice is deep, patrician. I know this because he lives in one of the toniest neighborhoods in town.
“Hello, Mr. Hall? This is Annabelle Graham. You probably don’t know who I am, but I’m a mom from the Jefferson School and I’m running for School Committee. I was wondering if you’d consider endorsing me.”
“Can you tell me any reason I wouldn’t?” he asks, his tones moving upwards in friendly loops.
Disarmed, I laugh genuinely, and warm up. “Actually, no!” We both laugh. I start to tell him a bit of my “platform,” which is, improving things for all types of learners, making certain we are doing everything possible to attract and retain first-rate teachers.
At this point he interrupts me. “Does that include firing the ones who stink?”
Again we laugh. “No, not if they’re tenured,” I retort, “but they will get a nasty letter in their file!”
“Oh, that file can do such damage,” Thompson says. Then, seriously, “Annabelle, I tell you what. You can definitely use my name.”
“Thank you!”
I hang up the phone, wanted to lie down, I’m so exhausted. But now I have a big name, from a rich precinct.

“You got Thompson Hall?” My friend Diane, who got elected just last year, exclaims in disbelief when we meet at her house the following Saturday. It is a sunny but chilly day in early March. Nonnie is still in the race. “God, he’s so rich I didn’t even bother trying!”
“Yeah, well. I have just been going down the list. Some say yes, some say no.”
“God!” Diane did not have a contested race for the entire time, she lucked out. It is a dream to be able to do that, but some say it doesn’t do you any good in the long run, because you never have a chance to “build your base.” I guess that is what I’m doing now, with my uncomfortable calling.
“Fred Slezak says I will have to raise a ton of money to do two mailings. One mailing should be soon, targeted to people who know me, asking for money. Then I have to do one closer to the election, to get people to vote for me and agree to do Dear Friend cards and stand at the polls on election day.
“Dear Friend cards?” Diane says. “I never had to do that.”
Diane has this way of thinking out loud; she is amazingly unself conscious. I did not know what to say about her never having done Dear Friend cards, but I don’t have to; she’s already moved on to the next thought. I’m certainly going to do the cards, though. I figured mine would be the size of a 3×5 index card, and would have my picture, a few key endorsers, and my platform. I would use them to hand out to people at the polls, too. People write these Dear Friend cards for you, and mail them on your behalf to their friends, asking them to vote for you. I was going to have people actually working on my behalf! I got that floating feeling in my head again, which seemed to happen often now that I was running.

I am writing this from a hotel room in MinnesOHta. I love it here. It is a beautiful morning (I am up way too early, Boston time) and a gorgeous room, with a gorgeous breakfast. I actually ate buttered toast. I now think toast is better than chocolate; how screwed up is that? But Dr. Atkins’ bizarre regimen really plays with your head/stomach (this month is my 4 year anniversary of starting Atkins, whoop-de-doo, but a big deal to me because I never had my weight under control before Atkins).

But I digress. I find it so interesting, how different people are in some ways, depending on the part of the country you are visiting. Like their land, the Minnesotans seem wide open, in both accent and spirit. So incredibly friendly and fresh-faced. When I was waiting for a woman from the Autism Society of Minnesota to pick me up in the airport yesterday, I was told to “look for a blonde woman.” Although I was tired and hungry, I had to laugh at that.

Here, as in Erie, Pennsylvania, where I spoke at the Barber Institute, I launched right into what I thought was a clever little speech about checking one’s autism baggage, what’s autism got to do with it, etc., but the audience was quieter than I expected. I think they expected me to be more formal, more of an expert. There was a slide projector sitting there, which I never use, rows and rows of beautiful tables set up, and maybe people were waiting for me to be the Autism Sage. So I just kept going, and suddenly they got me (maybe it helps that I tell them “This book of mine is about what not to do, as much as what to do!)”). After that, they were laughing quite a bit, which was great. It loosened me up more, so I could do my best.

It really gives you a thick skin, to speak publicly, and to gloss over missed jokes and forgotten words. Public appearances paradoxically allow me to confront my flaws and my imperfections and deal with them, like nothing else. You just have to present your best face (makeup, blowout, and nice clothes help, but they can’t do it for you) and then just be yourself, connect with people, and hope for the best.

And now I am returning home, a three hour flight that somehow becomes four hours, and start with a new meshugenah venture: trying to get caucused in to Town Meeting, for the third time! We just had local elections and now there is an open seat in my precinct.

Also, please say a kind prayer for my mom, a beautiful and extraordinarily sweet soul, if you can. Not going to elaborate, just do what you can, those of you who have faith, or some connection to God, in whatever form it might take. Thank you. (Photo is Dad, Mom, Laura in foreground at my book party at my cousin Eric Marcus’s fabulous townhouse in New York.)

Remember, Eric is the estranged husband, Emmy is the main character (nee Natalie). BTW, the scene I posted the other day, with Henry and the joint, is going to be much later in the book. –sls

Eric could not concentrate on his work. Software was always his first love, but sometimes, it just didn’t cut it. There had only been one thing that had ever replaced his obsession with computers, and that is what was commanding his attention now: Emmy. Now, always, Emmy. Goddamn her. From the moment he saw her, with her wild hair and her green eyes, at a party during grad school, surrounded by like six other guys, he knew he wanted her, and only her. He’d hardly ever dated before Em. But once they became friends, it was only a matter of time.
They were inseparable; total opposites who had somehow found each other appealing. Emmy was getting her MBA but she was a total humanities type; she’d majored in English, after all. The MBA was to earn a living, she had said. But of course, in the end, she hadn’t done anything with it; the closest she’d come to business was being a second-rate realtor.

Eric felt guilty for that thought, but he also knew it was true. It was his business sense that had gotten them the house in Belleville, the vacations in the Bahamas, and her expensive wardrobe. Emmy was a high-maintenance chick who appeared low-maintenance at first. He was totally taken in by her lazy half-smile and her unkempt hair. Little did he know at the time how hard she worked on that mane of hers, just to get it to that windswept state it was always in.

But it wasn’t any of that that had finally made him leave.
He stood up, walked to the bookcase, and pulled down the photo album. A piece of paper fell out; looked like a receipt. He didn’t even know what it’s significance was anymore. Maybe none. He leafed through the funny grad school shots, so odd and poignant with their out-of-style hair and clothes. Even a geek like him could tell that these pics were like twenty years old.
There was Emmy in her wedding dress, and him in that monkey suit, looking really thin and scared. And happy. He remembered feeling like he’d won the jackpot. He kept thinking that people weren’t supposed to be this lucky. Why had she picked him? Why were they together? Why did she love him?
He kept asking himself until he got too busy. First with work, and then the boys.
Then, autism. Everything was autism. Em nearly lost her mind with Nick back then. His mind flashed to that day in that doctor’s office. That stupid, clueless man. “He’ll probably never marry, never go to college. He may be mentally retarded.” Em – that firebrand – had looked him in the eye and said, “No. Autism, maybe. All the other stuff – over my dead body.” She had picked up Nick, her pocketbook, and walked out, slamming the door. It wasn’t until they were in the car that she’d lost it. She had cried all the way home, and for days after, it seemed. She’d been a zombie. Just barely functioning, taking Nick to the playground and letting him sit in the sandbox, eating sand while she just stared. Her playgroup dumped her. They stopped telling her where they were meeting and she’d run into them by accident. Her parents didn’t seem to get it, either, acting like the doctor was all wrong. Emmy could think of nothing else, talk about nothing else except what was wrong with Nick, what should they do, then, where should he go to school, were they doing enough? And once in a while, she’d pay attention to Henry.
Well, that wasn’t fair. She paid a lot of attention to Henry, because he was normal, and a knock-out baby. He made them laugh again, after so much crying.
Their whole life, though, had really become autism. Their vacations became few and far between, and extremely difficult. Then Dan came along, and they were both so worried that he’d be autistic, too. When it turned out he wasn’t, Emmy couldn’t get enough of him. She kind of spoiled him, Eric thought. She became the total earth mother that she’d always threatened to be, completely absorbed in her children and her garden. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not him. He was like part of the furniture. The breadwinner, the babysitter for her increasingly frequent trips to Gretta Kelly. At first he would pick fights with her to get her to notice him. Or be really nice, really thoughtful. Nothing worked. Nothing. She was too far gone into the kids. Suffering over Nick, in love with Henry and Dan. He felt the same, but it was like there was no room for him and how he felt. So when she asked him to leave, at last, he was only too willing.

He put back the photo album, not really sure what he had hoped to accomplish by looking at painful pictures. He sat back down at his computer, determined to write some tasty code that would bring him back to life again.

The phone rang before he could start. It was Emmy. Creepy, because he’d just been thinking about her. “Hey,” he said. He never bothered pretending he didn’t have Caller I.D. What was the point?
“Eric. I wanted to tell you something good for a change.”
Eric smiled just hearing her happy voice. “Okay,” he said. “I wasn’t really working anyway.”
Emmy laughed as if he were joking. “It’s Nick. He’s doing really well!”
Eric felt something light and airy in his middle. “Oh?” he asked carefully.
“Well, I mean, it’s just really nice. Sweet. He’s started painting.”
“Painting?” This was the big fucking newsflash?
“Don’t sound like that! It’s really good. He is very into it. And he’s good at it, too.”
“Good at it? As in, he might have a savant skill as an artist, or as in, he painted a few circles with a fat brush dipped in tempera?”
“Jesus, you piece of shit,” Emmy whispered.
“Emmy, wait! I’m – “
Emmy slammed the phone down.
“Sorry,” he said to the receiver.

The next morning, probably because of the wine, she was running late. She snapped at the kids several times trying to get them going. “You mean you haven’t showered yet?” she yelled at Henry, who seemed to be daydreaming in his bed. Daydreaming! At 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday! She stormed downstairs, where Dan was supposed to be getting the cereal out. He was sitting in front of a full bowl of Kocoa Krispies, reading the back of the box. “Mom, can you find all the hidden ‘Kocoa’s’ in this picture? I got ten.”
“Dan, where’s your milk? Why aren’t you eating?”
“Can you get it?”
“Honey, why do I have to get it every day? What’s with that?”
Dan sighed and looked at her sadly. “Okay, I’ll get it.” He started to slide off the chair.
“Oh, never mind, I’ll get it!” She bent to the low refrigerator shelf and pulled out the gallon, already halfway down. She slammed the milk onto the table. Then she looked for the telltale signs of Nick: crumbs, scattered bits of cereal, empty cereal box with paper lining upended on table. Nothing. “Nick!”
A muffled, “Yes, okay, yes,” came from upstairs.
“What, did everyone forget that it is a school day?”
“Why are you mad?”
She looked at Dan and her heart twisted. “Argh, I’m sorry. I don’t know, I just am. It’s not you.”
“Is it Dad?”
She sighed. “I don’t know, Dan.”
“That means yes.”
“Dan, no, it means I don’t know.”
“Can you get me juice, too?”
Henry slunk in, wet stringy hair clinging to his emerging man’s face. Would she ever get used to that strong chin, those all-seeing eyes, that bit of mustache? He said, “Is there any more OJ?”
“Oh, I don’t know, did you check downstairs?”
He shuffled off to the basement. She knew there was probably either no OJ or just one more. She’d have to go shopping today. Her least favorite way to spend a morning.
“There isn’t any,” he said tone
lessly.
“I’m sorry, Honey, I’ll get some today. There’s apple.”
“No thanks.”
“Mom! You said you’d get me juice,” yelled Dan.
“Coming,” she said, tired already, at 7:37 a.m.

We’d hit the bottom
I thought it was my fault
And in a way I guess it was…

Dragging the sea of a troubled mind
Had to leave myself behind.
I’ve been flying high all night
If you wrote me off, I’d understand it
Cause I’ve been on some other planet
So come pick me up, I’ve landed.
–Ben Folds, Landed

I may just have the courage to blog what has been going on with me. People are often commenting on my courage when they read my book, the courage to tell it “like it is.” The truth is, I’m not at all brave. I just can’t stand to carry around my misery for too long before unloading it onto a page. When I write it down, I process it. When I send it out into the world, it becomes more real for me, more understandable. It is not about bravery; it is about sharing a feeling. It’s about barfing a feeling, really.

In one of the chapters in my book I packed a bag to leave because things had become so hard for me at that point. I am often congratulated on the fact that I did not leave. It’s funny to me how much pain I attributed to autism. That is a pain that the world can understand. But pain that is about relationships that don’t work out, or a psyche that is injured — that is a different story altogether.

I packed a bag on Saturday and I left. This time I called Ned, who was with the boys at a party, and I told him I was going to my mother’s for the night because I could not bear life in my home anymore.

Ned was very sad that I was going. He said that no matter what he does, I can’t seem to be happy. I think he does a lot that makes me happy, but right now I am struggling. It is partly about my family life, the way the five of us are such fortresses unto ourselves: Ned takes up his station at the end of the diningroom table with his laptop; Nat takes his place in the center of the white couch in the livingroom; Max sits in front of his computer in the playroom; Ben draws at the other end of the diningroom table or plays with legos in his room; and I sit in my window seat in the livingroom. There is so little social interaction that I feel like I’m going crazy sometimes. I need more. How do I get more out of them if it is so much in their natures to be so independent, self-sufficient? What do I do with all my stuff? Sure, I have friends. I have my writing. I have hobbies. But I still have empty space that presses in on me.

Then add to that the fact that two relationships, relatively new ones, are taking a real dive. I can’t get a handle on them. You, my readers, tell me, “Don’t chase anyone.” But it’s not that simple. The silence of that empty space reverberates and bends the truth, until I believe once again that this particular friendship is something I need.

Plus, my agent formally told my editor that I was not doing her proposed project. I’m doing the novel instead, so now I’m totally on my own. And wouldn’t you know it, after writing 185 pages, I have hit a wall again. The wall which says, “You suck as a writer. You call this a character? You call this a plot?” More empty space.

Weird thing is, two very old friends reappeared in my life in the last few days. Do I let them back in?
But there’s a reason they went out of my life, too. I have to figure out if we are in new places to begin again, or if the limitations still drag us down.

I went away from Ned and my boys this weekend because I was too sad to stay where I was. I thought I could get away and get some fresh perspective. I was going away because I felt that they could not give me what I needed, but I came back full circle. I realized that what Ned gives me is the space to be myself. Sometimes it is too much space. But the space around Ned never squeezes me or hurts me. I need to figure out how to fill the rest of it, without going down a destructive path with people who promise one thing, but really just end up bleeding me.

In the end, as always, I come back to Ned. I was listening to one particular song on my drive back, Ben Folds’ Landed. He says, at the very end of describing a destructive relationship that is over, “Come pick me up, I’ve landed.”

I called Ned just then, to let him know I was almost home. But I said, “I’ve landed.” He knew exactly what I meant. And when I saw him there, with his long hair and his crinkly eyes, taking care of all three boys, harried by work, and still looking at me like I was the most delicious thing he’d ever saw, I realized that despite the pain, this truly is where I belong.

More novel excerpts. I have changed the main character’s name from Nat to Emmy because it was confusing to people, given that my son’s name is Nat. I also changed the estranged husband’s name from Todd to Eric, for reasons I cannot disclose except here’s a hint: I have a thing for Eric Clapton.

As she opened the waiting room door Emmy thought, see this is why you don’t get involved with your kids’ specialists. You don’t shit where you eat.

Jim was standing behind the desk, sorting mail. He looked up at her. “Hey,” he said, friendly enough. Well, thank goodness he could be a professional.

“Hi. Go ahead, Nick, take off your sweatshirt.”
“Yes,” said Nick.
“Seems happy,” Jim remarked.

“Yeah, sure. I think he likes coming here,” Emmy said, taking a seat. She glanced at the magazines but they were all the same as last time. She really should have brought a book.
“You don’t.”

Emmy just looked at him. She had tried to block their date from her mind. Her experience with Eric had left her feeling mixed up about where she stood with Jim, and whether she should even be considering dating him at all. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t think so,” Jim persisted. “Nick, go in and play with the play-doh for five minutes while I talk to your mom.”
“Play-doh, yes.” Nick ran into the room.
“I hope he doesn’t eat it,” said Emmy. Nick had always loved the salty flavor of Play-doh.
“It’s non-toxic anyway. What kid doesn’t eat Play-doh?” He came over and sat right next to her again. Just smelling his soap smell made Emmy want to bury her head in his shoulder. How could she like him so much physically, when they hardly got along? “You seem so forlorn. What is it?”
“Jim, it’s hardly the time for a heart-to-heart.”

He gave a self-conscious cough, slapped his knees and stood up. “Suit yourself.” He walked away. Then, “Nick! Whoa, looks like you like orange, huh Buddy?”

Jim brought down the Beginning Drawing book that was something he had brought to the office on a whim, as something to fill the vast bookcase that took up one wall. He had found all but the very first lessons to be elusive to him; his skill was definitely in the oral and verbal rather than the tactile or artistic realms.

But something about the way that Nick had opened every can of orange Play-doh and pressed his fingernails into the flattened mushy discs, the same pattern every time, gave Jim an idea.

“Nick. No Legos today. Today, art.”
Nick did not respond, but kept indenting the Play-doh with his thumb and then index fingernails.
Jim leaned over and put his hand on Nick’s, to stop him so that he would attend to him. “Nick.”
Nick looked up and then away. “Yes. Art. Okay.”
“Good, you heard me. I think you like art.”
“You like art.”
Ah-hah, thought Jim. An immediate response, though echolalic, indicated some passion. “So we can work the Play-doh for a while and then maybe take a look at the is drawing book and get out the paints.”
Nick snapped his head up from the Play-doh. “Paints, yes. Yes.”
“You like paint?”
“You like paint.”
“Then let’s paint.”

Jim brought out large white paper, brushes, and paints. He opened the Beginning Drawing book, and pointed out the steps of forming basic bodies with the most basic shapes. He would point to a shape and ask Nick to tell him what shape it was, and then have Nick first draw it with a pencil, and then he got to draw it with the brush in the color of his choice. Nick had no problem doing everything Jim requested, and had a remarkably steady grasp of the pencil and the brush, far better than his shaky handwriting indicated.

By the end of the session, Nick had drawn and painted a house, a snowman, a cat, and a clown, using basic shapes and naming them all clearly. His lines were crisp and true and he always chose his colors in the same pattern: orange, red, green; orange, red, green.

“Let’s hang them here to dry, Nick. It’s just about time to go home.”
Nick jumped up from his chair. “Yes. Go home.”

Outside in the waiting room, Jim walked over to Emmy. “A fantastic session today,” he said. “Does he paint much at home?”
“You know, only just now, because we tried it when he was little, you know, when they’re like three or four and you get them finger paints – “
“A lot of neurologically atypical kids are squeamish about messy wet stuff like finger paints.”
Emmy nodded. “That’s what I discovered. I tried brushes with him, too, but he just looked right through them. After a while, I gave up, you know?”
“A hazard of the disability. Sometimes these kids aren’t into things developmentally until years passed the time.”
“Yeah. But I found out the other day kind of by accident that at school he had been thrilled with painting, particularly orange paint. So I bought him some, right away, and he’s been painting in his room every day after school.”
“Really? Independently?”
Emmy nodded, smiling. Pride shone from her eyes. “It’s the first thing he has ever liked that I can understand. You know, not much I can do with wiggling string or squeezing air with my hand.”
“I know what you mean. This is fantastic. We can really do a lot with this.”
“That’s great to hear.” Emmy smiled warmly at him, and with that, all the bad feeling from the other night dissipated.

Henry knew that he had a few more minutes until Mom came back with Nick from therapy. Little Thing 2 was watching Dinotopia, a really bizarre long movie, so he’s be okay and would leave Henry alone for a while. He deserved a little break. He had worked all day in school, aced his math test, did okay in French, and even got out of breath in gym. Then, onto Taylor’s office, to Xerox like a million things and staple them. Then, home to watch the brat. Yeah, now it was his time. He dug out a joint and lit up, with his window cracked a little bit.
He coughed and felt the slow heaviness settle on his brain, stroking his thoughts until they each stood separately like a shining beautiful thing. He thought about Sylvie, now in the privacy of his room, and how she had stood up in front of the class today presenting her report on a figure in 20th century American history. Sylvie had picked Amelia Earhardt. Not that original, but he knew that Sylvie had wanted to choose a woman; who could blame her? She had looked luminous; he had just learned that Wordmaster word. Usually he hated spelling but luminous reminded him of pearls, flower petals, ice on a lake in the cold sunshine. Sylvie.

He closed his eyes, seeing Sylvie, and dragged on the joint a bit more, until his thoughts were too muddy to look at anything clearly. He could hear the noise from the movie coming up through the floor and he could practically see the dinosaurs marching in front of him.
Suddenly, his head started hurting like a hammer had come down on his skull. He stood up, clutching his forehead. As soon as his feet hit the floor, his lunch traveled upwards, seizing him by the throat. Covering his mouth, but knowing it was futile, he tried to run to the bathroom. But he could not move his feet quickly enough. It was like they were blocks of cement. Panicking, he reached for the desk chair to pull himself along, but the chair flipped over and he fell on his back. The vomit started coming up, out of his mouth, all over his shirt and the floor. He could smell the acrid aroma
and this made more vomit heave upwards. He closed his eyes to all the pain and disgusting odor around him.

The joint fell from between his fingers, next to his bedspread which dragged on the floor. The end of the joint glowed, a tiny dot of orange, turning the hem of the bedspread gray, then black as its heat spread across the white cotton.

I was so taken with the Code Monkey song that I decided to write a parody, “Autie Boy.” I hope everyone understands that I’m rooting for Autie Boy.

Autie boy get up, get breakfast
Autie boy go to school
Autie boy make boring schedule
But Autie boy no fool.
Teacher say “Autie boy very diligent
But his data sure stink
Not making 80 percent with ABA
Why can’t Autie boy think?”

Autie boy think maybe teacher want to perform boring discrete trial tasks by herself
But Autie boy never say it out loud
Autie boy not verbal
just cowed.

[chorus]
Autie boy like M&Ms;
Autie boy like wiggle string
Autie boy not a simple boy
Big warm fuzzy secret thoughts
Autie boy like stim

Autie boy hang out at bus stop
Cause the bus routes look nice
Autie boy want to ride forever
Not just once or twice
Bus Driver say no thank you to this rider ‘cause
Autie boy give him the creeps
Anyway you go to subway now
Horn make too many beeps

Autie boy have long walk back to apartment
Sit down watch t.v.
Autie boy not watching the show
Only want see credits — you know

Autie boy he good at b-ball
No one gave him a glance
Autie boy keep doing his training
Hope to get him a chance
Coach say go in at end of game
That won’t do school no harm
Autie boy make 6 winning baskets
Magic come from his arm

Autie boy think someday he get to live in world where no one thinks he’s weird
Where no one thinks he is sick
Where people accept his shtick.

[chorus]
Autie boy like M&Ms;
Autie boy like wiggle string
Autie boy not a simple boy
Big warm fuzzy secret thoughts
Autie boy like stim.

Another excerpt from my new novel-in-progress. Remember, Nick is the autistic kid, Nat is the mom. D*** is the guy Nat is having an affair with, and Todd is her husband.

Art was next on his schedule. Nick was breathing easily because art did not have words in it, or numbers. Or people. Margaret put the brush into Nick’s hands and gave him a color choice. He liked that: “Do you want red or orange?” And not, “What is your favorite color?” He did not know how to answer that. He knew there was a right answer to every question but that most of the time he did not know it. He hated words and the way they lumped together in front of his eyes.

The brush in the orange paint was smooth and beautiful. The paint was wet and glided all over the paper, turning white into orange. Nick dipped and stroked over and over, watching the tiny drips of orange dry and harden on the paper, watching the orange grow bigger. He wanted to do more with it, so much more, but soon the timer went off and he had to go to the next thing on his schedule. The hard knot in his stomach came back and he felt his hands squeezing. He saw an arm nearby, smooth and soft and close, and pinched it hard. Then there was a little yelling, which made him want to cry, but then he had to sit by himself for a while, which was very good. He almost forgot the orange. Almost. But when Margaret came back she had ugly bandaids on her smooth arm and her eyes looked at him too hard.

“I know you liked the painting, Nick, but we have to do other work now. If you do a good job, we can do more painting, okay?” As she spoke the hardness left her eyes and he could breathe again. He had heard what she had said, about the orange paint, and he was able to say the right thing back, “Okay, yes.” He rocked a little and squeezed the air, and waited for Margaret to give him his work.

Nat had finished dressing and was getting ready to call D***. It had been days since he’d left his voice mail. She did not know what to say to him, or what to do about their strange relationship. And there was Todd to consider. And Jim, now. At least Jim was unattached. She really had not wanted to speak to D*** until she knew how she felt, but no clarity had come to her in all these days.

The phone rang, startling her. She waited for the Caller I.D. to come up. “Ford School,” Nick’s teacher. She picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Nat? It’s Margaret from Nick’s classroom.”

“Oh, hi!” Her anxiety level jumped. A call this time of day from the school was never good, no matter which of her sons it was about.

“Hi. Nothing’s wrong. Just wanted to let you know there was an incident today.”

An incident. The school’s banal way of discussing difficulties that arose with the students.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it happened just as he was finishing one thing and was asked to transition to another part of his schedule. He aggressed with a teacher.”

Nat knew there was little point in trying to get more details from her; the staff was extremely careful at maintaining confidentiality and what they considered to be professional neutrality from their students and the families. But she had to ask anyway, “Who was it? Did he hurt anyone?”

Margaret hesitated. “Just a staff person, no, it’s fine.”

Nat felt that it was Margaret herself who’d been hurt. She always wished they would tell her and make Nick apologize, make him have normal consequences, rather than autistic ones. Rather than treating him like a set of behavioral problems to be decreased or discouraged. Nat also wanted to know what were the activities he had been doing at the time; was there a reason behind his aggression, other than what the school saw as autistic stubbornness? Maybe he merely had liked what he’d been doing. Whatever it had been. And if there was something Nick liked that much, she wanted to know what it was! “Can you tell me what he was doing just before he aggressed?”

“Painting.”

“Uh-huh. Did he like it?”

“Um, I guess so. He stayed on task admirably. Covered an entire sheet of paper with orange.”

“So he likes orange?”

“Well, I guess he does. He was offered a choice of orange or red. He picked orange.”
Nat wondered what would have happened if he’d been offered more than two pathetic colors. Nat liked Margaret but she sometimes could be a little too crisp, too professional, and things usually worked much better for Nick if is teachers were sloppier, and more in love with him. She wondered, what else did Nick like and want that he was denied? Her heart twisted in pain for her silent son.

“Okay, well that is all good to know. I hope the rest of the day goes better.”

“I’m sure it will,” Margaret said warmly.

As Nat hung up, she told herself to remember to buy a set of paints this afternoon.

She zipped up her boots and decided she would call D*** a little later. Right now she had to get to a showing, the Pearls again.

The condo they were seeing was in The Farm, a historic section of town that was extremely desirable and difficult for most middle class people to afford. But, she figured, maybe the Pearls had some undisclosed source of income, so who was she to judge?

As soon as they pulled up she knew she had a sale. The look on Mrs. Pearl’s face gave it all away. The neighborhood had all the signs of pedigree that Mrs. Pearl craved: tasteful black or silver Mercedes, Audis, and Volvos were parked outside on granite block driveways. The gardens out front were small but well-tended, with neat gravel or winding brick paths. Black wrought iron or stone balustrades edged properties and terraces. It was a 1.5 million dollar two-bedroom, but every square foot was polished and perfect. Mrs. Pearl tried to restrain her Cheshire cat grin – she was already trying hard to fit in here – but every few feet she let out an “ooh,” or “aah.” Nat didn’t like her, but she couldn’t blame her, either. This was a pristine, beautiful showplace.

They walked through it and within fifteen minutes told her they wanted to make an offer, before anyone else did. Nat smiled. “Sure, let’s go back to the office.” Hah, D***, see? She thought. I may not be a real estate wiz, but I know people.

Nick settled himself into the middle of the white couch. Mommy was nearby, so he crouched over, covering his face with his hands so that he would not have to look at her. Most people’s eyes hurt him, or scared him. They glowed outward from faces and pressed into him, making all the words in his head whirl around or disappear.

Mommy moved into the playroom. He heard rustling in there, but no talking. He felt the breath come out of his throat again, open again. He opened and closed his hand, and felt the air stir around his fingers. He thought over and over about the orange paint at school. The orange had filled up his head and burned in front of his eyes, but in a happy way, like music. He had wanted to sing while he painted, but he knew that he couldn’t do that in school. Someone was always saying, “Quiet” to him, except when they wanted him to talk. He did not understand those rules either.

But the painting had no rules. There was just the liquid fire on the soft page. The perfect furry black brush, soaked exactly right with orange. He almost cried remembering the orange, but like the way he almost cried when Mommy made fudge. The taste filled him up, blocked out all noise. This was what orange did.

“NickIhavesomepaintforyou!” Mommy came crashing into the livingroom spouting loud words. Nick covered his eyes harder.

“Nick,” Mommy said quietly and slowly, “I have some paint for you. Like at school.”
Nick popped up his head. “Yes.” He stood from the couch. Mommy p
ulled out a rustly white bag and dug around. She produced four brushes of differing thickness, and five fat jars of bright paint, two of which were orange.

Nick stared at all of this for a moment, smiled and turned away.

“Oh, Baby Delight,” Natalie whispered, calling him his very first nickname that she and Todd had thought of, because of the way he would turn away from them as a baby when he was especially happy. She handed him the bag and watched him run upstairs to his room, a tearful joy on her face, knowing that she really had gotten it right this time.

Code Monkey is a funny song that is making the rounds in geek world. It is all from the perspective (and in the language) of a code monkey, who says things like, “Code Monkey get up get coffee; Code Monkey go to job. Code Monkey have boring meeting. Boring Manager Rob.” Some of this rings very true, even for a Code Gorilla like Ned, who would never have to write code for a boring login page. Later on Code Monkey confesses that he has “a big, warm, fuzzy secret heart…Code Monkey like you.” Code Monkey likes the girl at the front desk, likes her sweaters, and tries to buy her sodas, but she won’t drink them because they make her fat. That’s me!

Here is my own highly evolved Code Monkey. Sweet!

I have been writing my novel, so my energy has been going into that rather than the blog. That is a good thing, however, because I need to have a big writing project again; my emotional and creative energy have been so scattered and shredded lately. I met with my editor last week for lunch and although it was great seeing her and catching up, and talking about potential projects, I walked away a little shaken. This is because she had listened to my new autism book proposal, and she told me that it was a “smaller book” than MPWA. Translates to = narrower market, paperback original, smaller advance. “Why don’t you write about ______?” she suggested, a topic that we both knew that a friend of mine is working on and trying to sell. This felt lousy to me and, although an interesting topic, I could never do that to a friend.

BLAH. Back to square one.

But by Saturday, my head was back with Natalie and her boys, Nick, Henry, and Dan. Nick is very sweet and severely autistic, Henry is also a wonderful boy but struggling with drugs, and feisty Dan is struggling with being the youngest in a family that is very challenging. Natalie is separated from her husband Todd and is beginning to see other men. Her husband finds out and things become very complicated. My agent is discouraging me from going the fiction route; so much harder to sell. My editor: definitely not their kind of book.

But while doing an excellent workout on Saturday, I thought of the twist that I think will make my book interesting and edgy, and of course it has to do with playing around the edges of traditional marital fidelity, and keeping a family together in emotionally trying circumstances. Here’s a new excerpt:

Nat dialed the pizza place the moment she got in the door. “Henry!” she called with the phone on her ear. “Are you going to eat?”
“Yeah!”
Henry had stayed home from school today because he’d been so sick last night. Nat had had to force him. He claimed he was fine, but she thought he looked green around the gills, as her mother used to say. Must have picked something up at Todd’s.
“Nick, will you come in here and help Mommy with the table?”
Nick got up from his spot on the couch and pulled a napkin out of the drawer.
“There’s more than one person eating, ya know,” came Dan’s voice out of nowhere.
“Dan, where are you?”
“In here.”
Nat looked around the kitchen, under the table, but couldn’t find him.
“Here.”
The voice was coming from the slats in the louvred pantry closet. He couldn’t possibly fit – she pulled the door open and Dan came tumbling out. “Ow!”
“Well, honey, why were you in there? You’re too big for that.”
“I like it in there. I can be a spy. And let me tell you: that guy does NOT know how to set a table.”
“Well, why don’t you show him?” Nat asked, running out of patience. She got out the juice and the salt.
“Hey, I thought we were doing that!”
We. She liked that. Dan and Nick, doing something together. She smiled and stepped back from the fridge. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to get in your way. Go for it, guys!”
“Yes,” said Nick, hurrying to pull out one more napkin.
“You need three more!” shouted Dan.
Nick put the napkin down and brought his palm down hard on Dan’s head.
“Ow! Stop that!”
Nick kept hitting in a blind rage, and then started biting his own arm as Dan began shrieking and crying.
Nat came running in from the dining room. “Nick! Nick! Sit down,” she pointed at the floor. “Time out.”
Nick sat down immediately but kept biting his arm.
“Calm hands, Nick. Calm hands.”
“That guy is a stupid idiot freak!” Dan was rubbing his head. “I’ll never forgive him for this! Never! I’m telling the President!” He stomped out of the room.
“Idiotfreak whoooom,” said Nick, covering his eyes. “Sorry I yelled at you.”
“Oh, Baby,” Nat said, and started to cry. “Oh God. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” She balled herself up in the corner by the pantry door and just cried. After a while, she became aware of someone standing right next to her, completely quiet. Nick.
“Crying,” Nick said. “Mommy sad.” He was peering down into her face. He put his hands on her cheeks.

Saturday night gave me a glimpse of my future. It was a little like Chinese food: sweet and sour. Both Max and Ben went to sleep over at friends’ houses, so Ned and I were home alone with Nat. We decided to go out to a restaurant we would not usually go to with all five of us, because we knew that Nat, the most mature and least picky eater of the three boys, would eat well anywhere. I didn’t want to spend a lot (see, I can change!) so I chose Chinese, a place in my favorite neighborhood in the more urban part of town. I had eaten a little too much all day, and the day before, and the day before that, so I (stupidly) figured “Oh, Chinese! I can really maintain a non-fattening meal that way.” So easy to lie to oneself when one is craving certain foods. Last night all I could think about was sweet, spicy sauce on some kind of diced protein. I figured I didn’t have to “count” the sauce. Uh-huh.

We drove around and around looking for parking, and I could just feel Nat becoming more tense with each disappointment. Here is a sample tense parking conversation:
N:”Oh, there’s one, she’s leaving!”
S:”No, Ned, that’s not a real spot!”
N:”Oh, sorry.”
S:”Jeez, who are they honking at?”
S:”What about that one? Can I get to it from here?”
N:”Yeah, but — d’oh, that person just took it.”
S:”This time I’ll drive around and go left. I have a little secret parking area.”
N:”Oh, look at this, clever!”
S: “See? Good parking karma.”
S: [upon exiting car] “Nat, you were very calm while we were parking. Good work!”
N: “Yeah. Natty, hold my hand. Nat, calm hands! Nat, we won’t go into the restaurant if you pinch.”
Nat: “Go restaurant.”
N: “Then don’t pinch.”
Nat: “No pinch. Go restaurant.”
N: “Lately this happens every time we go out. A little flare-up, then it’s over.”

We sat at a window booth, which always makes me happy. Ned ordered spareribs, which I thought I wouldn’t like them anymore, but, wow, I was wrong. After having like five little pieces, I noticed the traitorous honey-colored sauce beneath the pile. No wonder.
N: “See? Pigs taste good.” (This is one of Ned’s favorite phrases, because when we were first married, and for the longest time after, I didn’t ever cook pork, because my mother never did either. So when I finally started buying bacon, sausage, etc., I often exclaimed over how tasty they were. So Ned started saying, “Pigs taste good.” He even made it his signature for a while on email and his cell phone said it when it was first turned on. Just to remind me: buy pig products. Sorry to offend my truly Kosher friends, and my maternal grandmother, may she rest in peace.)
S: “Yes, they certainly do.”
N: “I was remembering when Homer Simpson was talking about all the different meats he liked, and wondering where they all came from: spare ribs, bacon, ham, sausage. Lisa goes, ‘Dad, they’re all from pigs!’ Homer says, ‘Oh, sure, like there’s some kind of magical animal out there.'”

It was a bit of a struggle getting Nat to try the spare ribs, but neither Ned nor I would give up because we absolutely knew he would love them. Finally, I put a little greasy pink chunk on his plate and said, “Nat, it’s like bacon. It’s sweet, too. You’ll like it. Just try it.” He gingerly poked at it with his tongue but then, of course, was completely blown away.

Ned and I continued to talk about whatever we wanted to, not afraid of kid interruptions (Nat never interrupts; he barely initiates any conversation at all). We talked, among other things, about our sex life, using subtle innuendo and hints, so that Nat would remain in the dark. This would never have worked if Max had been there, so it was a lot of fun.

Ned urged me to try “Dragon and Phoenix,” a sweet, spicy, chicken and lobster dish, sauteed with onions. OMG, as Max would say, this was one of the best things I ever tasted! Nat loved it, too, and scraped the plate (filled with fattening sauce) completely clean.

A peaceful, enjoyable dinner with my husband — and my nearly grown son. Not exactly how I pictured a Saturday night out, way back when, but back then, what did I know? I didn’t even realize that pigs taste good.

The spring birds and my own thoughts woke me up at 4:11 this morning. Not a drop of tiredness, but it’s coming, for sure. In the meantime, coffee: mostly-decaf, drop of cream, and 1 1/2 packets of Splenda, stupid, barely readable, gossip-lit novel, and laptop (and birds) to fill my senses.

Today is supposed to be the day, the warmest and sunniest day of the week, so all week I have been anticipating it. Ned, Max and Ben are going to the Big Apple Circus with Ned’s dad and Nat’s at school until 4 so I am here by myself for the first time since — I don’t know when. I am probably going to the beach. This has been one long school vacation, starting with Passover a week ago, Good Friday off, Boston Marathon on Monday, and the whole week of no school for Ben and Max.

I have filled myself with my boys this week. Mostly Ben and Max. I always dread vacation weeks because we generally make no plans and I worry about boredom and too much down time. As I mentioned earlier, however, Max had planned on making a Star Wars sequel, but I did not actually believe it would happen. His ventures are so ambitious, and he is such a perfectionist, that it is tough to get it right with him sometimes. I was surprised how well the green screen turned out and how satisfied he was with that. But then he started telling me how he was going to need seven Sith robes! And Ben kept asking what his role was going to be, and I kept noticing, with sinking heart, that Max did not answer him. Poor Little B.

Anyway, Max’s pouty words about the lack of costumes in stores finally got through to me. First I tried calling around, to I Party and to Toys R Us, to find cheap Star Wars costumes. But April is the cruelest month for costume wearers, it seems. None to be found. Next idea: go into the dress-up box and put robes together, from all the old Halloween costumes: Zorro cape, Dracula cape, guy-with-brain-leaking-out cape. All made Max sneer in disdain.

I saw what was coming before he did. Another trip to the fabric store. So, off we went, and bought twenty yards of $1.99 black. And, of course, a couple yards of brown to make one for Benj, who figured he’d be a young Jedi, even though Max kept saying, “NO!”

Lunch at McDonalds, in a sunny window table, view of the parking lot and Route 1 (ugly) the place was filled with threesomes, moms with two kids, dads with two kids. Vacation week McDonalds. I had two Quarter Pounders with cheese without the rolls (Atkins). I still can’t believe the counter-intuitive freakish way that I eat, but I have kept off that 20 lbs for almost 4 years. Drinking in my Diet Coke and that warm sun, I was filled with a feeling of wellbeing and just snuggling in the moment. Max and Ben are very pleasant to be with for the most part. Max’s low, soft voice and Ben’s helium-filled louder voice mingle and give and take, discussing the stupidity (or not) of Neopets, the fight scenes Max is planning, and the downhill progress of Happy Meal toys since Max’s younger days. His naive cynicism is one of my secret pleasures.

Back home, plastic bag full of fabric and potential. Okay, time to make the robes. We go to the third floor, where I have my sewing machine (named Irving, for my grandfather the tailor) set up. I have a river of black material spread out all over me and the floor, and Max and Ben trying to help (trying). We fold, cut, rip, pin. No measuring, no patterns. My favorite kind of sewing. I call on Grandpa’s spirit to help. I tell the boys about winding a bobbin, and why there’s two threads in a sewing maching seam. How Grandpa was so used to the old sewing machines, where you turned the wheel away to reverse, using your hands, and how he used to jam my machine because it was all electric. Ben feeds the fabric and steps on the peddle, Max does not want a try.

I end up with a huge Emperor’s robe, with some of the seams mysteriously inside-out, and a lot of lumpy fabric leftover in the hood. But Max is grinning at himself in the mirror, so I know it’s going to be okay.

They go downstairs and come up with a picture of a Jawa, and I determine to make that for Benj. It is much easier, it turns out, to work with three yards than ten. I piece it all together in fifteen minutes, pointy hood and all. A black stocking to block out Ben’s face. They are thrilled.

The best part is, the Jawa costume is too cool to leave out of the movie.

A few friends have forwarded this link to me “Escape the Hopelessness,” from the National Autism Association, and I feel the need to blog it myself. Frankly, it is ads like these that make me feel hopeless. Hopeless that this society will ever be able to get to a place where they accept difference and even learn from it. I, for one, do not want any of my children, autistic or not, to morph into something they are not. Especially not some kind of bug.

Is autism treatable? Some say it is. But we have to be extremely careful that we are only treating difficult symptoms and not trying to alter who a person is inside. And sometimes, the symptoms are there because we lack the understanding, not the child. I remember when I finally let go of all my ABA training — I had been directed to make Nat file cards alphabetically to rechannel him whenever he laughed inappropriately — I discovered connection with Nat. In that split second that I did not reach for the file cards and instead, sat down on the couch and laughed with Nat, got as silly as he was, he looked at me, really looked at me, and soon his laughter died down naturally. In that moment everything shifted for me, and I realized that he truly is just a person, just a kid, with his own goofy way of doing things and it was up to me, the parent, to figure out how best to connect with him, rather than squelch the “inappropriate” without looking beneath the surface.

I think the question should be “how can I help my child be the best he can be without giving him a message that he is somehow defective?”

(Photo is Nat, caught “mid-flap” and doing silly talk while looking at his Lego swimming pool birthday cake)

Here’s why autism does not rule my life: because Nat is a ziese neshuma, Yiddish for sweet soul. We have enough going on that the autism doesn’t jump out and seize me by the throat, the way it used to. Or I should say, the behaviors Nat exhibited due to autism, due to our not understanding his needs. We have enough going on, good and bad, Ned, Sue, Nat, Max, and Ben. Five puzzle pieces that fit together fairly well, some days better than others.

Yesterday I had the day from hell, and by the end of it, I was ready to go to bed at 8:30, two hours before my usual bedtime. Nat and Ben had just finished their showers, and were dancing around getting into pajamas. I got into mine and settled into bed and Ned said, “Really? You’re going to bed now?”

I sniffled, “Yes.”
He got in, too, and lay on his back, extending his arm towards me, his age-old invitation to snuggle. I told him why I was sad and he listened, offering advice or sympathy now and then.

Suddenly Nat walked into our room.
“Nat!” Ned greeted him enthusiastically.
“Hi, Sweet Guy,” I said, less so. What did Nat want? He did not usually come into our room. He usually waitied in his room, until someone remembered to come and kiss him good night.
“Yes,” he said, as always.
“Natty, come lie down with me,” Ned said.
“Yes.” Nat, so literal and physically awkward, threw his long bony frame right on top of Ned, making him gasp for air and laugh. “No, Natty, over here.” He made room for Nat, and Nat laid his head on Ned’s chest, his face just a few inches from mine.

“Oh, it’s the Original Three,” I said softly, tearing up from remembering lying in bed with Ned and baby Nat. One time, I tried to nap with little Nat right in the bed with me and we couldn’t because every few moments he would raise his head and see me there with my eyes closed and he would laugh his baby laugh at me. Oh my God, did that really happen? If that happened, then why was I ever sad about him? Why did it matter that we had some label to go with some of what he did? Why did I let that define him back then?

Oh well. Enough ass-kicking for today.

I extended my hand and stroked Nat’s cheek, still soft because he doesn’t shave yet (the long hairs on his face are white blond so he doesn’t quite have to). I pushed my hand under his face — his skin felt clammy and alive — and left it there, and he let me.

Why was he there? I think he was there because he knew I needed him. Like his father. Here we are at the NAAR Walk for Autism.

Here is yesterday’s “controversial” post. This is not about my love for Ned; it is about love in general, between friends. It is about how I have experienced love sometimes. Unfortunately, many, many times it has felt this complicated and painful to me. But not my marriage; never my marriage. That is one of the few things in this life that I have somehow gotten right (knock wood, etc.)

Why does love got to be so sad?
–Eric Clapton, 1970, before he pursued, won, then divorced Patti Boyd Harrison, his good friend George Harrison’s wife.

I know I’ve blogged this topic before,
so forgive me if it’s a crashing bore
But I’ve got to work it once more through
And bounce it off of all of you
I just want it to make some sense
But sometimes I fear I’m just too dense.
My question is: why do we love?
What causes it, what’s it made of?
What is that moment when you see someone
As something more than just for fun?
Why do we suddenly have to need
And those strong feelings, then, do lead
Us to forget ourselves and all we have
Thinking that now we’ve found a better half.
Is it all about luck and choices we make?
But in choosing we find a remaining ache
For we always seek that missing piece
One way or another, and find no peace.
–me, today, eternally

Does anyone else out there perceive certain relationships as a chase? Are all relationships, to some degree, about beloved and lover, as Socrates posited? Do all people have that moment of vulnerability, when they realize that they do indeed want/need this person, and in realizing the desire, they lose something? Why does that loss sometimes feel greater than what we’ve gained?

Some of you may have noticed that I took down (and just reposted) my last blog post, about love. Some readers have been troubled by the fact that I talk about myself and my problems; someone even made the suggestion that if I’m going to do that, and not talk about my kids, I should start a new blog.

I’m not going to start a new blog. I have said before that my blog is about all kinds of things, but all related to me and what I think, how I process life. Autism does not rule my world, and neither do my children. I have been extremely bogged down with one particular friendship lately, (not my husband), and I have tried writing about it to gain clarity. This has helped me tremendously, though it has frustrated some readers.

I guess that is the hazard of relationships, and a hazard of the blog. For us all. The bloggers put themselves out there, and anyone can read and comment. Anyone. And the readers go to the blog in search of something, and sometimes they get it, sometimes, they don’t. The thing that bothers me, I suppose, is that people who came to my blog because of my book have a certain expectation that the blog will be just like the book, a family memoir kind of thing, when in reality, the blog is a lot more personal, self-indulgent at times, perhaps. But my blog is always honest, and that is the similarity to my book. I tell you what I’m thinking, what I’m going through, the painful, the beautiful, the ugly. It makes people wince sometimes. But it is always true. I put pictures of myself up there, and of those in my life who don’t mind being put up there. I think pictures explain what words cannot, and I think they are fun to look at. I sometimes allude to people without explaining who they are, and that’s because I either can’t or choose not to. But sometimes even I cannot put myself out there to have my ass kicked, so I took that post down.

I’m considering deleting anonymous comments because I don’t see any benefit to them. I think people use Anonymous mostly to jab and run. I put myself out there, I think the least I can expect is those who read and comment can put their names to what they write.

Bottom line here is that I am a whole person, not just someone’s mother or someone’s wife. This blog is a warts-and-all kind of thing. As the Grateful Dead said in 1970 in Box of Rain, “Believe it if you need it, if you don’t just pass it on.”