Susan Senator

I wrote this last night, then went to bed without posting it.

I look outside and the darkness of Erev Yom Kippur, 10th Tishrei, in the year 5767, has (appropriately) descended. This is supposed to be the holiest day of the year for Jews, and here I sit with my laptop feeling just a little bit melancholy that I’m not honoring it in the traditional way. Old habits die hard. By that I mean, I’m not going to services tonight and hearing the sharp, loud, breathy tones of the shofar (ram’s horn) or Kol Nidre, which is a tenth century prayer that you are supposed to hear three times during Yom Kippur. It means, literally, “All Vows.” Its origins are supposedly about releasing common folk from vows they made during the year which they did not fully understand. It then became a release of all vows made to God, but not to anyone else. It allegedly became popular throughout history because of the many times Jews were forced to convert to a different religion; Kol Nidre absolved them from these vows. My understanding is that Kol Nidre is a kind of erasing the slate, a way of beginning the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur.

On Yom Kippur we’re supposed to think about all the things over the past year that we did which we should not have done, things we regret, things that hurt people or ourselves, things that do nothing to make the world a better place. I love hearing the rabbi recite all the different sins we may have committed, and then putting them into real life context: “for the sin we sinned before you by acting callously…” becomes “I was nasty or competitive with someone in the PTO.”

Mostly I think about how many times I just let Nat lie around without making the effort to engage him “purposefully,” which is good for his development, his independent living skills. I think about how I should also try to find that special connecting point every day, share a laugh or smile with him. Nat is like a big orange poppy, so wonderful to look at, delicate to touch (petals fall right off), finicky to grow.

I think about how to be a better friend to Ned, to shut up and listen to him more. Ned, my bouquet of daisies, easy to grow, abundant, bright and light and hardy, beautiful in a backdrop or in a crystal vase, and which, if you pick the petals, always end on “he loves me.” How to take care of Ned, because he takes care of all of us.

I think about how to reconnect with Max, tall, masculine indigo delphinium, strong, stunning to all. A favorite in the garden. Yet can’t grow everywhere. If happy, returns and stays forever. How to make sure he’s happy.

I think about how to nurture Ben, my rose, smells wonderful, must be pruned and fed just right to grow properly, who has so much sweetness dripping out in between his thorns. How to respond right to Ben when Ben corrects Nat for something Nat has said incorrectly, but uses a mean, sharp tone.

I think about how to be better to me, (not in terms of pampering myself, which I excel at) about not beating myself up or engaging in destructive behavior with others. How to let go when I need to, and hold on when I need to. I think maybe I’m an oriental lilly, which appear delicate but are actually very tough, grow in many kinds of places, can overwhelm with their scent and exotic looks.

We don’t belong to a synagogue, but we used to. That is how Nat and Max became educated in Judaism. I and a few other parents started a Special Needs Task Force, because prior to our joining there was nothing available for the education of kids with disabilities. We shamed them into doing the right thing. I kept referring to Moses, who had a speech problem. By the time we left, there were trained tutors for kids with autism there.

So why did I leave? The cantor broke my heart. When Nat was 12, with bar mitzvahs just around the corner, I found out that all the other kids in his class had already picked their bar mitzvah dates. All that was left for Nat was a Monday bar mitzvah. I wanted the whole nine yards: a Saturday morning bar mitzvah, in front of the whole congregation. I was told he would have to wait until next year, then. I felt so betrayed, we withdrew from the temple and we made our own bar mitzvah for Nat. We did it not to be “good Jews,” but because we wanted to show our world, our little circle of family and friends, all that Nat could do and that he was no tragedy. What better way than to have have him lead a ceremony that goes way back, thousands of years, just like so many other 13-year-olds before him? Not to mention how much fun it was to have a party in the Copley Plaza!

We are Jews without a temple. It’s not so terrible. What matters is what we believe, how we act, and what we do with our lives. That’s what I tell my boys.

I told Nat that this is a holiday where you think about being good and calm. Where you think about God, who is all around but you can’t see Him.

He said, “Yes.”

I tell them all, be the best you can possibly be, make the world a better place, starting here in our home. We celebrate the holidays in our own way, at home, with family or friends. It’s just that on Yom Kippur, I feel bereft without hearing the Kol Nidre, or the shofar blown. (So I looked up Kol Nidre on iTunes and listened there!) These ancient, strange sounds bring me chills and shock my senses so that I feel connected with the wandering tribes in Israel, way back when. The shofar is like a call across the centuries, binding together all of us in our belief that God is still with us, though sometimes difficult to sense. If you tune into what is good inside you and others, you will find it, I think. What I tell my sons is, God doesn’t care if you speak Hebrew to Him in one particular building or another, in Arabic, English, Farsi, or in Latin; He doesn’t care what kind of meat you eat, or whether you know a prayer or even how to talk; God is way above caring about whether you eat food on this day or not; a Being like God is all about goodness, and goodness alone. You know what that is, I know what that is. God is everything good that happens, in the world, between people, in your heart.

God, as Nat says, is “Yes.” (No, not that ‘7o’s band!)

Happy New Year, L’Shanah Tovah!

Yes, another blog post! Can you handle it?

Okay, let’s just say I’m working on a book that is about living well with autism. I need a sample chapter PDQ, so I am asking all of you autism parents to think about the worst thing that ever happened, the worst crisis ever concerning your autistic child — this could be how others treated him/her; a school system idiocy; a total meltdown; an embarrassing episode; a really annoying behavior. Now don’t worry, this is not a book that will denigrate autistics; it will be a book that illustrates the entire gorgeous and horrifying, boring and mundane, the spectrum of life, the panoply of being, whether autistic or neurotypical, and how to figure out happiness moment-by-moment living with an autism–tinted family life. After you have described said crisis, briefly tell me, what did you do about it that resolved the problem? And, what did you do to make yourself feel better while it was happening?

Email me a little summary or leave a comment with contact info (email or phone). Then when I’m ready I may contact you for an interview and you will be one of the Voices of Experience in my new book.

And thank you very much.

I am working on a new proposal but other things keep going through my mind, so I thought I’d make a list. Here, so far, are a few things I want for my birthday (some only Ned can provide):
1) A gorgeous bellydance costume, accessories
or this one.
2) Tix to Eric Clapton
3) Tix to a Comedy Connection show
4) Dinner out: you gourmands, give me suggestions in the Boston area!
5) This treatment at Bliss Spa
6) Or this one
7) Night out drinking or desserting with a few compatible girlfriends
8) A fantastic cake
9) Real fire in one of my fireplaces — not a 3-hour log — huge chocolate bar, champagne
10) Gift card to Anthropologie

I need a book idea!
I have an agent interested in something that I could write, but I’m not sure I feel it deep down in my heart, where my best stuff comes from. Same with my editor: she has given me an idea, but it is very research-y. Not me. I’m a bit of a Lazy Libra. (Note: birthday is October 18…) MPWA came right out of my heart/gut. That’s my favorite kind of writing. If I wanted to do research, I’d have my PhD by now (drat that Harvard; but see? they probably could tell that I’m a heart girl not a whatever girl). Anyway…
Here are some ideas I’ve had. Please don’t steal any of them!!!!!

1) Other parents who have made peace with autism — editor kind of liked but called it a “small” book. ouch.
2) Taking care of your child, taking care of you — living well with autism. Totally tips and strategies, illustrated with anecdotes, that I and others have come by for being our best even when life gets tough (even yesterday, a really bad day, I managed to cuddle with Ned after a nachos dinner and watch a nice movie with lots of kisses before and after, plus I did three laundries and changed the beds and got Max and Nat to vacuum. In between, I took a huge nap and felt really sorry for myself!) I’d have to interview lots of people, which is fine.
3) Things my sons have taught me — mother of three very different boys, none of whom are “mainstream,” maybe ten chapters, 3 per boy, one sum-up
4) Things autism has taught me — focus on Nat
5) Things others have asked me (at conferences and in email) about autism
6) Blog of a mad housewife — collection of my blog posts, some published, some not

Okay, please either rank them in order, favorite to least, tell me why, if possible, or give me a new idea. If someone provides me with an idea that I actually use, he/she will get a prize. Maybe your favorite candy or an autographed, personalized copy of my book? I don’t know what you’d like. My undying gratitude? Ned says I get a lot of hits on this blog, so I’m hoping it will help me now!

I am poised and ready. I really need an idea and I’m turning to all of you for help. Thanks! And again, if you steal any of these, you are an evil person. Don’t be evil, says, I and Google.

(Here I am, at Mom’s house, reading my final draft of MPWA, sigh)

Having a shitty day. I don’t even know why. I miss Max, he’s always out with friends. He leaves a hole in the family. Nat’s lying around too much and I don’t know what to do about it because I lack the energy to push myself and him.

I’m bored out of my gourd. Can’t read anymore, can’t write a thing. Tomorrow night is Yom Kippur, which always puts me in a dark mood.

Anyway, real chocolate, is necessary. No splenda, no maltitol. Maybe a bagel. Maybe a movie and nachos for dinner.

Here is one bright spot: heard from a fairly new but very lovely friend whose husband has started a blog. They are a smart, caring couple so I think they will have a lot to say of value. Check it out. Now I’m crawling back under my rock. See you later.

I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
I do not feel ashamed.
I’m your hell I’m your dream;
I’m nothing in between.
You know you wouldn’t want it any other way.
–Meredith Brooks, “Bitch”

Why do I talk about so many superficial-appearing things? Why do I talk so much about gardening, clothes, parties, flirting, make-up, hair, workout? Does my all-over-the-place blog cause you dismay? Did I lead you astray when you read Making Peace With Autism? Did I lead you to believe I was a martyr, or some kind of noble woman who only thinks selflessly about her kids and autism, only to discover that I’m shallow sometimes, selfish, moody, cranky, bitchy?

I did not mislead you. I am all of those things; I am what you thought, and I am not. I write the way that I do, and the things that I do, because I’m trying to be me. Really me. I’m trying to show, through my blog, that people are not one- or two-dimensional: be they autistics, moms, middle-aged, or young. One thing I hate is to be misunderstood. I hate to be summed up, dismissed. I hate it when people think they know me, because I don’t see how that’s entirely possible when I don’t even completely know me. I keep changing. So do we all. That is how I experience people: constantly shifting, never really the same one day to the next. That’s why I take such profound and primeval comfort in my relationship with Ned: he is more the same, day by day, than anyone else I’ve ever met.

I have written about my OCD and my struggle to gain control or let go, accordingly. The OCD comes in part from the way I perceive reality, as being soft underfoot. In my days of terrible struggle, I searched for certainty; medical certainty. How could I know, for example, that the lumpy crap in my breast was not a cancer lump? What was that pain in my right side? How could one possibly learn to take responsibility for one’s life and say, “I’m okay.” Even medical tests are only a certain percentage accurate. I was plagued, in my twenties, with the question, “How do I know?” and “What is real?”

In my thirties, the questions shifted as I wove my own carpet of certainty to stand on. I gradually learned, from my experience with Nat, that I knew what was what. I was the first one who felt that something was different about him. I was right, when everyone else, even my rock-solid Neddy Sweets, was wrong. This did enormous things for my self-confidence — but over time. So during my primary mothering years, in my thirties, the question in my mind became more, “How do I accomplish what I need to?” And not, “Am I okay?”

So here I am, in my forties. Suddenly I have two high-school-age sons who are doing pretty well, and a self-assured third grader (knock wood). I fufilled a few of my dreams (the book, earning some money, a few fabulous parties because of the book, Nat’s progress, Ben’s progress, and Max’s progress, a second book project). I have a lot more time to myself, and much more is resolved that I worried about in my thirties, and certainly the shit from my twenties is long over, with only a small regression every now and then. I have found that the questions I ask about life are something like, “What else should I do with myself, with my life?” I’m sure there’s some pompous psychological description for what I’m talking about, some Jungean thing to illustrate where I’ve been and where I am. What is important here, however, is that I have gotten to a point, or rather, my entire family has gotten to a point, where we can take a breath, look around, and make a choice about what’s next, instead of having it forced upon us.

I now have the opportunity to do things for myself that I did not have in my thirties, and that I could not do in my twenties. So I’m looking beyond the routines of my life, as well as looking closely at it, to decide what about it I like and what I want to change, and what else I want to do.

And I decided, a couple of years ago, that I needed to have more fun. I needed to figure out what makes me happy, and do it. So I write and write because that’s the number one thing that makes me happy. And I enjoy creating beautiful and fun surroundings, so I garden, buy and make pretty outfits, and try to stay connected with people who excite me: some are women, some are men. Sometimes I just have to throw off the mantle of motherhood, as much as I love my boys so much, and just be a bad girl. So when I go back to all the soothing, cuddling, cooking, cleaning, and cooing, I am my very best.

I did not mean this to sound like an apology. I was trying to figure out how to embrace all the parts that are this blog. Meredith Brooks’ tough girl song came to mind right away. I am a full plate, a jumble of contradictions, and I think that makes some people uncomfortable, because they want mothers to act like Mothers, and girls to be girls. But sometimes, as the Kinks say, “Girls will be boys and boys will be girls.” And autism moms can be sex kittens and garden club ladies.

It all depends on what costume I pull out that morning…

I have an excellent therapist. She has been with me all from the birth of Max forward. That means she saw me through The Diagnosis. What you may not know is that she also saw me through OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Back then, when Nat was 2 and Max was born, I was in the throes of OCD, probably using it to mask the pain of my world slipping out of control. I found it easier to imagine that I was going to die of some rare disease than to face the fact that my little son was not quite what I had expected out of a baby. Those days, I cleaned and cleaned, a veritable Lady Macbeth on germs. I checked and rechecked. I looked for stuff that wasn’t there. I felt utterly and miserably responsible for terrible things that never even happened.

Maybe I’m not supposed to say this so publicly? Will it make y’all squirm? Will people think I’m a nutcase? Honestly, any number of my posts will help strengthen that assumption!

No, I’m not a “nutcase.” God, what a horrible, insensitive word. As if someone’s existence could be boiled down to being a box of nuts, say cashews, or walnuts. Nuts are delicious. And good for you. Actually, there are worse things a person could be. Think of them yourself, and you will see what I mean.

I am sane, but I have my quirks. I am sane, I think, because of this woman. With her quiet, still manner, her unexpected laughter, and her common sense, she gently shoved me back over the line. She repeated things to me, simple facts, that led me to realize I was safe, even though I could not be certain. She cleared away that dirt so that I could look at what I really was supposed to look at: my sons needed me, badly. My husband needed me. I needed me.

Today we talked about my difficulty letting go, which still surfaces every now and then, but now it is more in the form of how I deal with people. My therapist suggested that being raised to believe I was to control everything I could meant also that I was raised with the sense that any problem could be licked (beaten, overcome). This was the empowering side of how I grew up: believing that I could decide for myself what was what. I could decide to be a thin person. I could decide to transfer to U Penn, and get in if I wanted to. I could be a writer and get published. I could, through rigorous care and exercise, bring my genetically high cholestrol under control. I could decide how best to reach my autistic son, the experts be damned.

Totally empowering. But implicit in that body of beliefs is a kind of uber-responsibility for what happens. If first I don’t succeed, try, try again…and again, and again? My therapist referred to my need “to wrestle to the ground every monster that comes along and tame it.” To never give up, even when all evidence says I should. To make every schmuck who enters my life live up to his/her potential and Be Good. She suggested that if I cannot wrest something I want under my control, that I find that nearly impossible to tolerate. Because I was raised to be In Control, and not to be in control is my own fault. If someone has wronged me, it is somehow my fault. I should be able/should have been able to set it right.

In reading Expecting Adam, I am learning of a similar woman who believed at first that the world worked in a rational, if-then, mode. If I am a smart person and follow the rules of a good diet and a healthy lifestyle and have my kids young, I shouldn’t give birth to a retarded child.

It’s magical thinking, however. Life just bursts out of its seams, like stinky toes from a sock, no matter how well darned. Birth defects happen. People act stupid. Good people do bad things sometimes that make no sense. You can’t make them understand how they hurt you. You can’t make someone else change unless they really, really want to. But then that’s not you doing it: it’s they who are doing it.

The other side to this rich coin is that just as you can’t control everything, you also can’t have everything your way just because you worked really hard and tried really hard. You can have a lot, but you can’t have it all.

Ned likens my inability to let go to my behavior with cake. He reminds me that ever since following hardcore Atkins, I have lost my ability to digest cake without becoming ill. Yet every time we have a birthday party and there is cake, I forget all the illness. I see how almost sexy that slice looks, springing back just a little from where it was sliced by the knife, firm yet soft, layered in colorful shiny icing. I cannot resist. I think, “Maybe this time, I won’t become sick. Maybe it will be different.” I eat the cake, and I become sick. I regret eating it. I vow “never again.”

So maybe now that I know all this, it will be a little less alluring next time and I will be able to resist the destructive gorging. And one day, the memory of cake will fade altogether from my mind, remembered only in a flicker of faintest desire, a remnant of my crazy, driven younger self.

My therapist says, “Yes, this is how it will be.” And I know she is right. She told me, all those years ago, that once I could walk past something upsetting on the ground and not check it out, just keep going, I would know that I could always do it. And she was right. That is how I walk now. I just go from place to place.

Now, the place I’m going is realizing I can’t do it all, I can’t have it all. And it is not my fault. I will just keep walking, happy with what I’ve got.

And hey, it ain’t bad.

When I first learned about him,
I was crazy with it
Losing my mind
Chewing off my own leg to get away

You said, “he’s still our Nat.”
And I stayed.
I did not realize then how much strength and courage it took
For you not to cry
But to think of me instead
And to think of Nat
And how he is, still just Nat.
Just that, but so much.

You knew from the first moment of our black certainty
What I needed
Despite what you needed —
The pain, the broken dream
Of the first grandson
Not broken at all
You smiled and shrugged
Wisdom in your not-knowing
He can live at home
He can do anything
Let’s get out the books
Let’s pick up the twigs
Let’s get out the bikes
Let’s get out the prayer shawl
Let’s run.

He’s still our Nat,
After all
And that is that.

On this beautiful fall day I felt the sun on my skin like God’s kiss. I felt warmed and loved from the moment I got up. Ned was already in the dining room with the coffeemaker belching out its brew, almost ready. He looked beautiful the way he always does when he first gets up, silver-blond hair raked back casually from his high forehead, sparkly blue eyes warm in recognition and welcome. We had our laptops flipped open together. I read through the emails, some political, some friendly, some business, some flirty, dispensed with them and drank my first cup, one of my favorite things to do all day. We talked here and there about what the day had in store, things we had thought about in the time between saying goodnight and our morning time.

I wasn’t going to exercise because my (intermediate level) belly dance class begins tonight, and I’m pretty sure it will be a hard workout. I went over the few errands I would have to run and decided that these would take me to the part of Boston where Mahoney’s was. I would do some final gardening.

Mahoney’s used to be located in Cambridge, right off Mem Drive. As nurseries go, it was a small one, but an urban gem in the heart of Cambridge. They had a huge supply of shade-loving perennials because their customers were largely urban gardeners, and that means a lot of building-caused shade (pardon my awkward syntax). It was there that I first learned the joys of pulmonaria, heuchera, Jacob’s ladder, turtlehead, windflower, and scented geranium (the perennial kind, not the pelargonium, the ubiquitous, unoriginal annual that everyone calls “geranium.”). I used to look forward to the first Mahoney’s visit of the year the way some look forward to Christmas, or birthdays. You park in the congested little lot, walk around the building, and suddenly, like Dorothy leaving her house and entering Munchkinland, you would be in a land of beauty and delight. You would walk in, surrounded by technicolor flowers, deep blue ceramic pots, arches wound with clematis. The thick, clean smell of leaves and garden dirt would fill you up like a favorite snack.

My favorite part of Mahoney’s, in spite of the wealth of shade flowers, was the full sun perennial section. Rows and rows of all the favorites, nestled together: delphinium, digitalis, peony, poppy. A whole different area for roses. Vines and shrubs, across the dirt road. I built two houses’ gardens from that place and helped many friends start their’s. In a previous post I said I was a writing whore, who will write anything for anyone. I am also a gardening whore: I will create, shop for, plant, and talk about gardens to any of my friends. No charge.

Then, one day two years ago, it all came to an end. Mahoney’s was gone. Apparently, Harvard bought them out (another reason to hate Harvard, along with the fact that 1) their school of government dean has made anti-Israel statements; 2) their grad school rejected me for their PhD program; 3) they rejected Ned from their engineering school even though he had three generations of Harvard on both sides of his family.) Mahoney’s had to leave. They resettled across the river, in Brighton, a neighborhood of Boston, in a much smaller, much less charming spot. They have improved bit by bit, but it is still not nearly as joyful to shop there as it used to be.

Nevertheless, I ended up there today. I wandered through the sun perennials and chose an indigo hyssop; a peach verbascum; a fuscia aster; a white aster; and just for fun and experimentation, a rose mallow. Who knows? As I planted, I had that brimming happiness I get when I have beautiful things around me. I had a little frisson of fear, thinking that somehow I might get reinfected with Poison Ivy, that dreaded b-itch. I tried hard not to scratch my face because of that, or to hitch up my ill-fitted bra (one does not want Poison Ivy on the face, etc.) And I dug and dug. I have now widened the front walk garden so that it is a large arc around the stone path, a melange of purple, pink, fuschia, indigo, and white. No unsightly yellow. No rusty colors, for God’s sake. Jewel tones and pinks. Like my wardrobe. Which is next, God help me. I have bought almost no fall clothes and Ned just complimented me on how disciplined I’ve been in my clothes spending. Alas: Anthropologie is about to have the first fall clothes moved to the discount area in the back, and I hear the call.

Then, lunch with Ruth. The restaurant with the type-o sign. The owner asked me what we were laughing at last week! I was embarrassed, but I said, “Come on, I’ll show you.” I pointed out the funny stuff on his sign. He smiled but a little awkwardly. I couldn’t make him see the humor. In the end, I apologized for offending him and told him we were just silly ladies. Sigh. When Ruth showed up, we had another good laugh, albeit discreetly.

It’s all good.

A husband and wife are discussing the alarming results of an AFP (Alfafetoprotein) test, given during pregnancy to screen for birth defects. They are also arguing about what they should do about it.

“What we’ve talked about,” I told John in a low, dangerous voice, “is that I am pro-choice. That means I decide whether or not I’d abort a baby with a birth defect. You steer clear of this one, John-boy. It is not your call!”
John looked at me as though I’d slapped him. The anger in my voice shocked even me…
…I rubbed my eyes. I felt terribly confused. “But now…look, John, it’s not as though we’re deciding whether or not to have a baby. We’re deciding what kind of a baby we’re willing to accept. If it’s perfect in every way, we keep it. If it doesn’t fit the right specifications, whoosh! Out it goes.”
John shook his head. “Don’t be silly, Marth,” he said. “You know that isn’t true. We’re talking about the difference between a healthy, normal baby and a defective one.”
The word defective hit me like a hammer. I folded my arms across my growing abdomen as if I could shield the baby from it. I felt irrationally, almost violently protective.
“So what exactly is a ‘defective’ baby?” I demanded…
…I lowered my voice. “I mean, I know there are babies born so damaged they can’t survive on their own,” I said. “But what about the ones that would actually live unless they were aborted? Where do you draw the line? Is a baby with only one hand ‘defective’?”…”What about…oh, I don’t know, a hyperactive baby? Or an ugly one?”

Martha Beck, Expecting Adam, Berkley Books, 1999

Precisely. Or an autistic one.

What is disability: the person’s problem, or our problem?

I am not arguing the pros and cons of Choice here. I am realizing that abortion is a good jumping-off point for understanding the way so many people mistake disability for tragedy. The way we automatically assume that the ‘dis’ in ‘disability’ means being at a ‘disadvantage.’ Or someone to ‘dismiss.’

But they are only so because we continue to view them as such.

If you haven’t already, read the book.

1) Laura is fine!
Thank you, everyone, who thought good thoughts for us.
I probably do not need anything else, but…
2) Told off a total bastard, tore him a new one (he is one), scraped him off my shoe, flushed him, etc. Told! Owned! as Max would say.
3) Reconnected with a friend from high school (he had been my prom date, actually! He is a wonderful man, so happy to see him again!)
4) Excellent workout, did it all, even stretching and icing
5) Reading a wonderful book
6) My Rosh HaShanah dinner was delicious and lots of leftovers that the kids love!
7) Great bike ride with Dad yesterday
8) Ate pie, challah, honey, the works, and gained no weight
9) Helped Max and his friend write a speech — they asked for my help; he is running for student government at the high school.
10)Benji’s social life is really thriving!
11) Mine goes up to eleven. Studio 60 with Neddy Sweets tonight!

I don’t know what this is. It is probably the beginning of a novel. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s funny. Or both. Or annoying. Either way, it’s straight out of my head. See what you think. I wrote it several years ago…

The world of women is comparable to a bowl of fruit. There are the round dark plums, the hard, boyish apples, the melons, the exotics, and of course, the peaches. I was born to be plump, round, voluptuous, zaftig. Call it what you will. Not thin. Also, my hair goes with the body type: curly-to-frizzy, deep brown, always shoulder-length.
I was also born to be the nurturer in my family, the patient , supportive one, the understudy, the second born.
I was born a plum. Sweet, dark, round. Or maybe a sack of overripe plums.
This is more or less what I was thinking as I checked the mirror as I always do when I first got up that morning and tried to find an outfit that would disguise my bumpy stomach, camouflage my too- muscular thighs, and play down my too-voluptuous breasts (in conjunction with a minimizer bra). There was very little to call attention to, except for my eyes, I guess. That morning was no different from any of my others, except that morning I happened to read an article in the “Stargazers” column of the newspaper. Actually, every morning I do read Stargazers but this morning I saw an item about Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer is a slim blond peach — but I know better. On the inside Jennifer is a plum just like me. She’s actually dark-haired and curly but she has the staff to blow it out perfectly. Her highlights have been so artfully applied, so that over the years you forgot her first appearance on the show “Friends” where she was as brunette as Julia Roberts. But even Julia is no longer brunette.
I twirled a bottom curl, the kind that grew near my neck, around my finger and thought defensively, Why does everyone go blond? What’s with all the two-toned stripey hair? Then I pulled the curl and looked at it, its pubic thickness so dense and lacking in shine. Yeah, well. Okay. Blond is better. Unless you’re Catherine Zeta. Straight is better, too, while you’re at it, unless you’re Giselle.
But even more than the hair, I think Jennifer was once a fat girl. A true plum who became a peach. I don’t know for sure; I just feel it.
So naturally it caught my eye when I read the following in the paper:
Aniston, 33, is a follower of low-car b eating, Atkins in particular. “It’s the only thing that works. It’s the only way to get those extra pounds off, easily. Except every now and then I could kill for a bowl of pasta.” Aniston is one of many Hollywood stars now following the low-carbohydrate craze, a diet fad that inverts the food pyramid, placing meats and proteins at the bottom and grains and starches at the top, allowing the dieter fats to their heart’s content – or discontent. “The jury is still out as to what the longterm affects of such a diet are on one’s cholestrol and blood sugar levels,” said Dr. Lars Kunevsky of the University of Pennsylvania Medical School. “Certainly a diet low in carbohydrates will, in the beginning phases, cause rapid weight loss. But what happens to a body deprived of such an important energy source over long periods of time? I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Ordinarily my eyes glaze over at the description of a diet’s philosophy . I don’t diet. The most I’ve ever done is Slim Fast, where you drink a “delicious shake” for breakfast and lunch, then have a “sensible dinner ” at the end of the day and the pounds just melt away. Well, I found the shake terrible and had one with my not-sensible lunch because the shake did not fill me up at all and it made me panic that I would not be able to hold out until my sensible dinner! Hence, the huge dinner.
But Jennifer followed this diet. And Jennifer lost weight “easily.” And Jennifer was a former fat girl.
So my mind churned up these creamy details, shaping them into a fine buttery idea, leading me to get out a bagel and toast it. And then as the hard slab of butter went limp around the edges as it melted into the brown and black surface of my bagel (which was so perfect and plump its hole was a mere crease in the middle. Desirable in a bagel, kiss of death in a woman.) I thought about this diet and me. I tore at the soft underside of my bagel and squeezed it like a sponge between my fingers. Some butter dripped from its little folds and I licked it. They said you could have fat. How could that be? What about that Dr. Kunevsky, what about what he said about longterm health?
What about what Jennifer said, about losing weight easily?

Mom NOS has a great post today. So, these are apparently the ten Bernard Pivot (I don’t know who that is, but I hear he turns on a dime) questions James Lipton, Dork Extraordinaire, asks his guests on his show. By the way, Will Ferrell does a great take-off on this guy. (Sorry, even the greatest technological prowess in the northeast — Max and Ned combining their efforts — could not find me a video link showing this.)

I love ten things, ten questions, ten anything. So here goes:

1. What is your favorite word?

yes

2. What is your least favorite word?

whatever

3. What turns you on? (creatively, spiritually, or emotionally? i.e. not sexually)

a great writing idea

4. What turns you off? (also creatively, spiritually, or emotionally, i.e., not sexually)

not being understood

5. What is your favorite curse word?

F*ck

6. What sound or noise do you love?

The return of the spring birds

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Repetitive dog barking
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

belly dancer
9. What profession would you not like to do?

soldier

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

“Hi. Your grandparents are right over there, and everything you eat will not make you fat, and you will always look and feel your absolute best, unless you want a bad day every now and then.”

Busy today in a lovely way. The sun is streaming through the windows of home and car, and it’s the kind of weather where you can wear either a pretty fall sweater (mine is palest pink with tiny white buttons) and jeans (Abercrombie hiphuggers) or shorts. Hair falls in perfectly crisp lines down the back and mine — chemically and heat-challenged though it is — even shines.

I met my friend Lori for coffee and we worked on a book review together; she needs help jumpstarting and I am a writing whore: I will write anything for anybody, even for free, I love it so much. After a satisfying writing session, I drove deeper into my Brookline, towards the Jewish neighborhood (A lot of people think Brookline is all Jewish but it is not. There are areas that are decidedly so, with Kosher butchers and Kosher restaurants and Israeli bookstores and people who look like my grandmas did. I love to see them huddling along, curved into themselves, wrinkled, bespectacled, in such strange practical shoes, but usually still well made-up and well dressed. Seeing them makes me miss my grandmas like nothing else. I want to go up to them and offer to be a surrogate granddaughter for the day, just to hear the heavy Eastern European accents and to have them butt in about my life: “How could you wear such shoes? Aren’t you cold? So high; won’t you fall?”). This time of year makes me miss my grandmas, too. It makes me long for my family. I did speak to Laura, though; she sounded good.

Having no family of my own around, (but Mom and Dad are coming on Saturday, yay!) I visited the birthplace of another family I love, the Kennedys. The JFK Birthplace is in the Jewish part of town, ironically. Back then, of course, there were very few Jews in upper crust Brookline. It was mostly a Brahmin place and the Kennedys were thought of as nouveau riche when they moved into the Beals Street home.

I paid $3 and took a sweet little tour of the green shingled house, just a typical Victorian home, nothing special. The wonderful bit came at the end, when they showed a short video, narrated by Senator Ted, about the legacy of Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy, his mother. They talked about Rosemary Kennedy, among other things (of course they talked about President Kennedy, and Bobby, and Joe, too), and how Rosemary, who was born either mildly delayed or learning disabled, inspired so many things in the family, such as the Joseph P. Kennedy, Jr. Foundation, which gives grants to those studying how to improve the lives of the developmentally disabled, Jean Kennedy Smith’s Very Special Arts, and Best Buddies, Anthony Shriver’s brainchild which pairs up typically developing high schoolers with disabled ones, and of course Eunice’s Special Olympics. By the time they got to the footage from the first Special Olympics meet, I was crying. I was thinking how wonderful that family was in so many ways, to work so hard to bring good things to people who have only known hardship. And my Nat, of course. There was even a boy who looked like him in the video, rocking a little autistically. So many other families have great wealth and opportunity and do nothing of the sort. The Kennedys, no matter how you may feel about them politically, have left an incredibly impressive legacy for the disabled. They will forever be my heroes. (They are also pretty easy on the eyes, btw.)

I was so moved and so glad that my next book project is related to all this. I am now waiting to hear the agent’s reaction to my proposal. I can’t imagine she won’t love it; it’s a really good idea with a great hook. Once I have a contract, I will tell you all about it.

Anyway, I drove to the Kosher butcher a block from the JFK Birthplace, and found a parking space, amazingly enough — and with 21 minutes in the meter! I happily purchased 6 lbs of single brisket, a sweet noodle pudding (fat free, for Dad), some potato latkes, and flirted with the handsome young Israeli cashier. I will get my round challahs somewhere else: Cheryl Ann’s, the best Jewish bakery there is outside of New York. And I better get a lot: challah is one of Dad’s only vices, and Max eats it by the handful (we tear, rather than cut our challah; it’s kind of like how I garden: getting my hands into it. The delightful yielding of the soft, yellow challah flesh is a sensuous experience, not to be missed. Especially if your stupid diet forbids you to eat bread, so you can only feel it or smell it!

Picked up The Beast, hung out at the school playground with friends for a little bit; perfect half hour in the sun. Beastie has his comics-drawing class at 4. Nat is home by then; Max, a little later. Then Neddy Sweets, who sounded down when I talked to him. I’ll have to make something with sausage in it tonight, to cheer him up. Not much else to say, just a happy, regular day.

She comes on like a rose,
And everybody knows
She’ll put you in dutch
Well you can look but you better not touch!

You older readers will know what I’m talking about. Oh, yes. I got it bad. It wakes you up at night and causes all kinds of redness and swelling. It makes some body parts feel like they’re on fire. Nothing can satisfy it. You vow that you’ll never, ever do it again, but somehow you always go back. You curse the fates for leading you to such a thing, and you are completely held it its sway until time heals you.

Or cortizone.

Yes, I am talking about poison ivy, of course. (Please check out the picture in this link so that you don’t get it, too! Unless you are hateful anonymous who sends me hate mail.) I believe I contracted it during a particularly wild weeding frenzy on Saturday. I was ripping out all manner of tall, ungainly uglies from my beautiful garden — I now have the full autumn fare. (Now that it’s autumn for real, and I have transitioned to the whole fall thing of school, occasional sweaters, jeans, boots, and PTO mishegos, I am into it and happy with it.) My garden is full of stands of pink or ruby sedum, pale pink tiny boltonia, purple and pink asters, roses, black-eyed Susan, yellow coreopsis, and a few different mums. (I realize I don’t actually hate mums; I really just hate what they stand for, the changeover from summer to fall. I have such a hard time letting go of summer, she is like a best friend, moving away. But she always comes back, per the deal between Demeter and Hades).

So I sent my doc an email and begged him for the stuff, Don Cortizone, who really takes care of that BI*** good, you know what I mean?

My right pinky is now lumpy and misshapen and itches like a … well, you know. Dad just had a virulent case of P.I. so I asked him to bring his medicine when he comes here for Rosh Hashanah, which is tomorrow night, (serious blog post about the Jewish New Year to come) but I just know that Dadley Do-Right will not because he will want me to get my own medicine, so that I come to no harm with his.

I never garden with gloves so I will never learn. I need to be able to feel the entirety of the plant to really snag it good. I need to get the soil under my nails and get really dirty when I garden. Gloves just get in the way. So that is why last year I got Lyme disease — and caught it in time, thank God, I actually had the classic bulls-eye mark! And that is why I get poison ivy every now and then. I take full responsibility for my condition.

But right now — I need to go and CHOP OFF MY PINKY. ARGGHHH!!!

Last night I was on my way out to a post-election party (Deb lost, but Deval won!) when I heard the sound of rushing water coming from somewhere in the basement. I was not doing a laundry, so right away I knew we had trouble.

The sound was coming from behind an old door that we keep wedged shut. It is a tiny “water closet,” just a toilet in a little room. We have not renovated our basement and so we have no use for such a thing at this time, and it is ugly and old and weird so I just prefer not to look at it.

I wrenched open the door. There was about an inch of “water” on the floor. I use that term loosely because this was actually of a consistency far more viscous and gray (and, sigh, brown) than actual water. There were also some strands of — I kid you not — spaghetti in the mix. I pushed the door closed.

“Ned, could you come down here, please?” (The same day as the bat-moth!)
We stared at it together. I think one of us muttered the name of a particularly important man from ancient Israel. And then, to the point: “SH**!” Slammed the door shut. “I guess I know what I’m doing tomorrow,” I said, or something like that.

It’s tomorrow. And I just finished the clean-up. It turns out that houses built 120 years ago used to have cast-iron drains buried somewhere in the basement, into which all plumbing lines would feed. After viewing their website the plumber told me, “is something they stopped doing around 75 years ago. That drain is gonna have to go. Maybe not today, but it’s got to go.” To the tune of around $3,000.

According to a tool enthusiast, Bob Robinson of BestofMachinery. Handy tap and die sets are really important for any project that needs screw threads, whether it is for a hobby or part of your normal workday.

For today, this miracle man and his assistant brought in all manner of snakey devices and pumps from Gilbert Plumbing and worked for nearly two hours to clear out my poor, rootbound, ordure-laden nearly-rotted, outmoded, cast-iron drain. A fearsome odor arose from the basement stairs, which I tried to ignore, and instead turned to more pleasant duties (no pun intended) like paying bills.

While I worked, every now and then I would hear the chilling sound of plumbers laughing. I found myself wondering, “What does the Inner West plumber find so funny?” What could be funny down there, in the primeval muck of our house’s bowels? They were not mean men, not the type who arrive here and then double the price of everything.

I came down to check on them and the leader told me, “If it makes you feel better, I’ve seen much worse.” Surprisingly, it did. I am insecure, even about my house’s messes. A part of me wanted to ask him what was the worst plumbing disaster he’d ever experienced? But I’ve asked that question of exterminators and I decided maybe this time I didn’t need to explore every single deep, dark, dirty secret of the universe. Visit www.waterrestousa.com/fort-lauderdale/ to learn how to prevent any water damage or leakage problems.

After they left, $279 later, I peered into the little water closet, that disgusting villain. A little less water on the floor from last night, (God, where did it all go?) but definitely something I had to deal with now. I went back upstairs and put on double latex gloves. Then I got out the clorox spray. I went downstairs with my little bottle and just started spraying the crap out of all the wet parts, literally. The sharp aroma of bleach mingled with the stewy gas and I wondered if the bleach would win. Then I collected towels I no longer liked and threw them down on the water. I sopped it up and threw the towels in a bag. This worked pretty well. The whole time I worked I realized I was holding my breath. I bleached and wiped up the floor as best as I could and threw the whole mess in an old basket. Then I peeled off every article of clothing I was wearing and jumped into the shower. The only things that kept me from crying bitter, self-pitying tears were 1) I knew I would blog this satisfyingly; and 2) I would get a great dinner out because of it. Maybe L’Espalier… It’s so pricey, we always see movie stars and famous people there. And probably many experienced plumbers such as charlotte plumbing can be the ultimate choice for all your plumbing needs.

There once was a boy named Pierre
Who only would say, “I don’t care!”
Read his story, my friend, for you’ll find in the end
That a suitable moral lies there.
–Maurice Sendak/Carole King, Pierre, 1963

One of my fondest memories is when Nat was into Pierre, the Maurice Sendak Nutshell Collection, and the Weston Woods video with Carole King singing the songs. The music transports me to my childhood (I was born in 1962) and now, to Nat’s as well. When Nat was four, he had a fascination with naughty, apathetic Pierre. It was always a way to get him to talk: just start singing the beginning and let him fill in the blanks, with him grinning in delight. I remember an especially funny, sweet mistake he used to make, at this part:

Arriving home at six o’clock
His parents had a dreadful shock.
They found the lion sick in bed
And cried, “Pierre is surely dead!”
They shook the lion by the hair,
They hit him with the folding chair
His mother asked, “Where is Pierre?”
And the lion answered, “I don’t care!”
His father said, “Pierre’s in bed.” [This last was Nat’s error; can you guess what it was supposed to be?]

I just found it so poignant that Nat did not get it. If he truly thought Pierre was in bed, then he did not realize that Pierre had actually been eaten by the lion! It made me think about how little words might mean to Nat, that he could interchange them like that so lightly. Or am I reading into it?

So today, he got off the bus, and Pierre was in my head for some reason. So out of the blue, as I was dishing out Nat’s ice cream, I sang, “There once was a boy named Pierre, who only would say……..”
As I sang these old familiar words, Nat broke into such a happy grin. “I don’t care,” he sang, right on cue.
Then I sang, “What would you like to eat?”
And he sang, just like old days, “Some lovely cream of wheat.”
And I sang, (just to stretch him a little), “Some lovely ice cream treat.”

He took the bowl and just started eating.
Oh, Natty. I care.

Does anyone else enjoy typos as much as I do?

Today I was having lunch with a friend and we were talking politics (it is the Gubernatorial Primary in Massachusetts today – Go Deval and Deb! I know I made a joke a while back about how I wasn’t too enthused for Deval but I take it back. He really listened regarding autism spectrum issues, for one thing. And Deb is totally pro-public education.). Okay, enough politics.

When we were done with our delightful lunch, of Greek salad with grilled chicken, we stopped by my car to talk some more. We saw a sign outside on the windows of the restaurant:

1) One Egg – coffee- juice-bacon- toast $3.50 [or something like that]
2) Egg – coffee-juice-bacon-toast $4.50
3) Egg – coffee-juice-bacon-toast $4.95

I said, “Whoa, I want the most expensive egg breakfast!” We were laughing so hard we were crying and needless to say our aging bladders were heavily taxed.

I also remember a sign in downtown Philadelphia, that my sister and I still laugh about: Ronald’s Fabrics
Fabrics from “All Around The” World.

Also, I get mail to The Honorable Susan because some mailing programs think I’m a senator!

Oh, and I almost forgot! (thanks, Mom, for reminding me) Anyone from Boston remember the old coffee shop at the Copley stop on the Green Line? “Dave’s Cofffe shop!” And then it read:

Newspapers * Juice* Donuts * Cigarettes * Cofffe,

I swear!!!!!

Tell me your funny typo stories…

I am extremely pumped, which means I will crash sometime in the afternoon.

Woke up at 4 a.m. I lay there thinking, “I have to be up in two hours but I’ll be a wreck if I don’t go back to sleep,” over and over, which did nothing to help my cause. And just as I was shutting my eyes and drifting, I heard a faint rustling noise. It was coming from the window shade on Ned’s side. Rustle, rustle. Whir. Oh God, wings. What the f***? A mouse? Or — gulp — a bat?

I have to tell you, I know there are many pro-bat people out there, people who tell you that bats eat mosquitoes, yadayada, that they’re really good, not scary, blahblahbla. Well they never had one dive-bombing at their heads in their living room. Those things can be tiny, like a benign shriveled leaf when they’re at rest, but when they fly, they’re huge and like something out of a horror movie. We have had three bat episodes in this big old house of ours, and I never want to go through that again. Max screaming, all of us herded into one room to get away from it. Then, the ominous silence when it finally tires and the furtive search for the thing. We had to trap them and kill them and get them tested for rabies — oh yes, that is what you should do, do not let them get away because you may have been exposed — they were negative, thank God. I got the boys rabies vaccines, as a preventive measure (not the kind of shot that contains human gamma globulin, but the kind veterinarians get prior to going into practice.) I actually had to take the three of them four weeks in a row for shots! But the thing is, what if it were to happen again, during some night, while they were asleep. Would Nat be able to tell me what had happened? He has trouble initiating. Would Benji wake up, even?

I got the roof holes all closed up and had the house bat-proofed, but when I heard that rustling noise I felt my stomach plummet. It sounded like we had a bat again.

“Ned,” I whispered, pushing the pillows off his head. “I hear something trapped behind the window shade.”
“Whaaa” He said, poking out of the bedclothes. I turned on the light.
Rustle, whir.
“What is it?” He asked.
“Could be a bat,” I said.
We looked at each other.
“Shit.”
“What do we do?”
We stood there for a while and stared at the window shade. We heard nothing. I leaned in and flicked it. Nothing. Turned the light out. Nothing. I started to raise the shade.
“Be careful, Sue.”
“You do it.”
Finally he got up the courage to lift the shade. I peered at the glass of the sashes. Nothing.
“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone,” I said.
“Wait!” Ned said. “There it is.”
I looked down, and there, resting innocuously below the window sill, was a huge moth. I picked up the magazine lying nearby and mushed it ferociously.
Don’t mess with an anti-bat person at 4 a.m.

I was gardening this morning when a woman stopped her car and said to me, “Did you know there’s a Level Three Sex Offender living on your street?”

Immediately I felt both scared and sad. I was scared because I do not want any harm to come to me or any of my loved ones. I was sad because I do not believe that these Sex Offender Registries are the best way to combat sex abuse and sex crimes. In fact, my suspicions are that being classified as a “Sex Offender” is a flaw-laden process, much like Death Row. I was also thinking about Tom Perrotta’s book, Little Children, about how a Massachusetts town goes crazy and into witch hunt mode over a sex offender; but he is actually guilty, too. A very disturbing book. Anyway, I think that the way the Registry works it will only stir up fear and suspicion, rather than get at helping people who are abused or who abuse. I understand that the intent is to warn people, but let’s face it, there are other crimes that are fearsome that have no such registries. Would we also want to know about local former thiefs, so that we can better protect our stuff left out in the yard? Or how about all the sex offenders who have not been caught? Or how about the neighbor who beats his wife? Or abuses drugs? People hooked on drugs and out of control scare me just as much as potential sex offenders. I am not being facetious. “Outing” people is not necessarily the way to prevent or protect. Intensive therapy is, in my book, the only real way to get people to understand why they do what they do and how to stop. But that’s a complicated answer to a complicated problem and people tend to like simple answers.

Look, I know that these terrible things occur, and I know that sex offenders are sometimes prone to committing these acts again. But when I asked who it was, my heart just sank. This woman told me that the warning posters down the hill were all about a mildly retarded man in our neighborhood. I know this man well; he is very sweet and docile. He has shown a great interest in my boys, but it always seemed that he wanted to be their friend, because they are at his cognitive level. I never let them play with him, because I always felt that he had to learn what was appropriate. I also used to let him know gently when it was time for our conversation to end (he would stay too long).

His father died last month. He told me this as I was leaving for the supermarket. I didn’t know what to say; his dad was like 93. His mother is still alive; he lives with her. He told me about the Memorial Service coming up, and my heart went out to him.

I guess what I’m saying is that it is not completely beyond possibility for me to imagine that he might have done something inappropriate. I cannot imagine criminal behavior, however. But what do I know about him, really? And yet, I also know the law, and I understand that “criminal behavior” is not always what we imagine. For instance, the whole statutory rape thing. I have learned at School Committee workshops how easy it is for a boy to get a record if his girlfriend is under sixteen, no matter how “consensual” something may be. There is no such thing as consent in minors, according to the law. I have warned Max about this.

But what makes me sad is the fact that this man has been living fairly independently all these years. He drives. He has a job. He has a pet. He has a place in the neighborhood. And now, it turns out that he may have a really terrible problem, and may be a menace to my family. It horrifies me that this could be true and that neighbors could turn against him. It reminds me of what happened to Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. And of course, I think about Nat, trying to live on his own one day, and the mistakes he might make. How they could cost him his freedom, or even his life. Or someone else’s. God forbid. For any of my children, I suppose this is a possibility. (God forbid) I just worry that Nat, if he is to be independent one day, is more vulnerable because he still has such a difficult time understanding social rules and appropriateness.

To me, these issues are never obvious and straightforward. I am forever plagued by the other side of the question, the “yeah, but, what if…”